No Grand Gestures
by angharabbit
Summary: After Sherlock's drug habits throw Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper together as a team, they decide that they may even sort of like each other. Progressively smutty.
1. Chapter 1

"Sorry, Mycroft, it's your turn."

Her voice was quiet, and full of exhausted regret. He cracked an eye and peered at her, evaluating the situation in the other room based on the grey lines of her face, the worried set of her eyebrows, the tousled condition of her hair, the stress-bitten colour of her lips. _No change_.

He sat up fully alert, the multi-coloured crocheted blanket he didn't remember pulling over him falling to his waist, snagging on the button of his three-day-old dress shirt. He untangled the wool snarl, and Molly Hooper handed him a mug of tea. It was hot, she'd brewed it for him before waking him. He had learned many things about Doctor Hooper this week, and her constant thoughtfulness and courtesy was top of the list.

"Thank you, Molly. Really you should take up my offer of a hotel so you can get some rest."

He stood up, and held aside the blanket with his free hand. She ignored his words and fell into the couch, into the warm spot he had left, and curled up into a tired ball of sweatpants and old tank top. He lay the blanket over her, and watched as she succumbed to sleep in a matter of seconds. Walking carefully with his full mug, he trod over to the bedroom door and pushed it wide enough to enter. The alarm clock read 4am, an hour past their agreed upon switching time. _Hooper's kindness strikes again._

In the bed was a single occupant: Sherlock. He filled the entire queen mattress; sprawled, restless and sweating, mumbling a steady stream of inaudible nonsense. Mycroft checked the bin, and found it lined with a fresh grocery bag. There was a stack of clean clothes on the nightstand, and the water bottle was full. Bottles of white sports drink sat off to the side, waiting to be needed. It was clear Doctor Hooper anticipated something over the next few hours.

Mycroft was no stranger to this progression, though. It was Molly who was the interloper, despite her flat being the venue.

At half past six on Monday morning he had received a text from Inspector Lestrade that his brother had once again been found in a doss house, stuffed to the gills with who knew what, and had likely been there weeks by his condition. The news had been expected, Sherlock never escaped his older brother's constant vigilance for that long unless it was to hide in the dark with the cockroaches. Lestrade had standing orders to avoid taking the younger Holmes to the A&E in that condition unless his life was in immediate danger, as the legal repercussions could embarrass all, but Sherlock was too far gone this time to not be medically checked.

The compromise had been to meet at Molly Hooper's flat, she could be trusted and would be less annoying than John Watson, who would sermonize. Mycroft had arranged the time off with her supervisor, and they had all arrived at her front door while she was still brushing her teeth, an abandoned comb stuck in her wet, tangled hair. Her home having only one bedroom, Mycroft had immediately offered her a stay at a nearby hotel to avoid unnecessary discomfort to her. Other than periodic medical checks, he was to be the primary care giver, as he had done so many times in the part. This offer had been summarily and repeatedly rejected.

Sitting back in the kitchen chair Molly had moved into her bedroom, beside the bed, Mycroft templed his fingers and stared at his brother's open, vacant eyes. It certainly had helped ease the living nightmare of waiting for Sherlock to return to normal, having a partner to share the load. This was his brother's first major foray back into his old world since he had gathered his goldfish, and while Mycroft didn't know yet what had set off this latest descent, he knew it was likely to have an impact on Sherlock's friends. The young pathologist had set about changing her quirky, comfortable home into a semi-medical care facility with a grim determination and a carefully contained rage that only showed at the cracks. When Lestrade had arrived with the barely conscious man slung over his shoulder, she was all cool professionalism.

They had pinned Sherlock's scrawled list of chemicals to the lampshade, a constant reminder of how unknown the situation was. As things combined and shifted out of his body at different rates, it was unpredictable to know how long each stage would last. They'd done their best to clean him up, but nothing would take the smell of stale urine, vomit and sweat out of the room until he could bathe properly and Molly's bedchamber could be purged and aired out. Mycroft made a note on his phone to hire a professional to come in to tidy when it was all done. He would love a proper shower himself, but he hadn't had a chance to run home and get more clothes, and he would not involve his staff in this sordid personal affair even to bring him some.

Sherlock tossed wildly, nearly flinging himself off the bed. Mycroft leapt up and caught him, pushing him back down towards the centre. The bigger man yelled, flailing his fists, catching the older man square in the gut before muttering something about "pre-buttered saracen gestation calendars" and quieting back down. He seemed a little more alert, so Mycroft got him to drink a couple mouthfuls of liquid before he fell into a fast sleep. Stomach aching, and old anger and resentment that they were once again in this situation seething, Mycroft sipped at his tea and began to answer work emails on his phone as the night hours ticked away.

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

"What do you think?" Mycroft asked, trying to hide how nervous he felt. He knew medical theory, and he could assess Sherlock's health with a single glance better than most, but over the past few days he had come to trust the woman in the old Spice Girls shirt's judgment to a degree that was becoming alarming.

Watching her face as she worked, Doctor Hooper checked Sherlock's heart, lungs, blood pressure, eyes, and breathing in a slow, methodical fashion. Dawn light through the bedroom window was catching in her hair, making it red as she leaned over her patient.

"Much improved," she admitted finally, allowing herself a tired smile. "I think he's actually just asleep now. I imagine that next time he wakes, he'll more or less be himself."

Mycroft felt his entire body relax, and flush with hope. He rubbed his bare forearms, where his shirt was rolled up, and felt some life coming back into his limbs.

"Come on, let's have a celebratory bowl of cereal and a cuppa, and then you should call a cab and go home for a few hours to take of yourself. Doctors orders." She took his hand, and led him out of the bedroom. He liked the feel of her warm fingers on his dry palm, the simple human contact, and rubbed them one by one with his thumb.

"You've been remarkable, Hooper," he found himself saying. "Thank you. For everything, thank you."

She gave him a smile over her shoulder, sweet and sincere. "You're welcome, Mr Holmes. I can't believe how much you've had to shoulder on your own. You're a good man, and a good brother."

Seeing something in his eyes that he didn't know he was emoting, she stopped her progression to the little kitchen table and turned back to face him.

"Come here," she said with gentle authority, and drew him into a close embrace. He didn't have the energy to feel awkward or alarmed, and while this sort of touch was nearly unprecedented, it didn't feel wrong. She rested her head on his shoulder, and lightly rubbed his back with both hands. "You don't have to do it all alone, all of the time."

Her warm, slight figure was having an unexpected affect on his, and he began to step away. Giving a contented sort of humming noise, Hooper went to press a kiss to his cheek, but missed as he moved and it landed in the hollow under his jaw. Surprised at the sensation, he paused and in her surprise, she let it linger. Running a brief internal diagnostic, Mycroft found himself uncharacteristically interested, most likely the combination of stress, pent-up emotions, and close proximity to an admirable, attractive youngish woman. This was a terrible thing.

"Do you ever make poor decisions, Mycroft Holmes?" The doctor asked into his neck, her pulse almost audible. There was no way she could mistake his body's decision, pressing firmly into her pelvis.

"Not typically," he responded, strained. He should really just go call a cab and leave this flat for a few hours. His brain began to feel sluggish and cloudy. All he could sense was her. "Do you think I should begin now?"

"Mmhm," she agreed, pressing another slow kiss to his neck, feeling the blood pumping through his body. "I think we've earned a senseless, no strings attached, job well done shag."

"I didn't realize that was a thing one did," he gasped as she pressed her teeth lightly into his skin and then flicked the sore spot with her tongue to soothe it. He grasped her hips, bringing her closer with an uncontrolled thrust. "I've been celebrating all wrong for years."

"Just to be clear, you realize that I'm asking you to fuck me and then we'll never speak of it again," she breathed, reaching for his shirt buttons and working them open.

"Obviously," he agreed, with a little of his usual arrogance. Guiding them backwards towards the couch, he slide his hands under her shirt and lifted it over her head. Underneath she wore nothing, and the first touch of her bare skin against his as she leaned over to kiss him felt explosive. His exhausted brain was overwhelmed by sensation, by the taste and feel of her as a guest in his mouth, her skin on his body. Not new to sex, but new to giving in to more primal passion beyond reason or intellect, everything felt different, more intense and horrifyingly personal.

These hands caressing his chest and threading through his hair were the skilled hands that brought his loved one back from the brink more than once. The mouth was the mouth that had spoken kindness in the dark when the hoarse words shouted from the patient were cruel and cutting. This body on moving on top of his while he pushed down her sweatpants and pants to bare her belonged to the woman who had given her health and energy for his cause, and in this moment it was more dear to him than anything he had ever hoped to hold.

Determined to make her feel as good as he was feeling from her, when they finished Hooper felt rung out from finishing so hard, so many times. Mycroft stroked her hair as his own haze of pleasure ebbed, his mind clearing. She was gathered onto his chest as they lay entangled on the settee, sticky and flushed.

"You surprise me, Mr Holmes. I thought you more the for queen and country sort," Molly said wryly. "That was downright filthy, the whole lot of it."

Mycroft flushed. "I think it was rather overdue. I hope I didn't alarm you."

"Goodness no!" She answered emphatically, tracing an old scar that ran down his torso onto his thigh. "What's this?"

"The result of legwork, my dear," he frowned. "There are several. I leave most of that to Sherlock, these days, he's always excelled at that sort of thing."

She put a hand on the scar for a moment, leaned forward, and pressed a light kiss to the pale, puckered skin. His breath caught, every nerve still electrified from their incredibly recent endeavours.

"Reading between the lines of Sherlock's insults, it sounds like the British public couldn't afford to lose you to an alley tough."

"You flatter me, Doctor Hooper," he responded wryly. After a short pause, he voiced a concern that was bothering him. "I apologize if all this was ill-thought out. It was terribly sudden, out of character, and I understand if there's awkwardness or embarrassment to follow. I assure you I intend absolute discretion, and won't bother you in future with expectations or demands."

He felt himself pulled forward until their positions were reversed on the other side of the couch, falling into the space between Hooper's thighs as her legs wrapped around his hips. He caught his balance on his elbows, his face at her chest. Catching his mouth, she kissed him until his lust burned through his exhaustion.

"It's been a long time since I had even a one night stand," she admitted, "I can't pass up the opportunity for good sex when it's already on me."

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

Mycroft hung his head over Hooper's bare torso as he panted through the final aftershocks and thrusts. Her fingers were leaving red marks where the dug into his backside, below her crossed ankles. He hadn't thought the second time would be possible, let alone superior. It was likely her finishing cry, stifled too late only by biting painfully into his shoulder, that woke the beast in the bedroom.

"God, clearly I'm still high."


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft hung his head over Hooper's bare torso as he panted through the final aftershocks and thrusts. Her fingers were leaving red marks where the dug into his backside, below her crossed ankles. He hadn't thought the second time would be possible, let alone superior. It was likely her finishing cry, stifled too late only by biting painfully into his shoulder, that woke the beast in the bedroom.

"God, clearly I'm still high."

"Fuck," Molly whispered breathlessly. Mycroft scooped his shirt off of the floor, and helped her cover her bare chest. Gently slipping out of her, Mycroft turned to glare at his dishevelled little brother.

"Give us a minute, Sherlock," he said with an icy authority he didn't currently feel he justified. Grudgingly obeying, Sherlock shuffled back to the bedroom and slammed the door.

"Rotten luck." Leaning over her, and beginning to feel quite awkward, Mycroft kissed her lightly. It already felt too intimate, for their moment had passed. She responded warmly, stroking his bare back. He couldn't remember them doing much kissing throughout the morning, and now that it was ending, it felt like an oversight. He felt reluctant to leave the shelter of her legs and her embrace, to leave the acceptable expression of passion and heat and deep sympathy for another, but it was time.

"Can't say we didn't enjoy ourselves," she mumbled, and he realized she had her head tilted down to look at their nethers, "I'm soaked." He blushed, she laughed. Their eyes met a moment, communicating silently. He read in the the barely perceivable details of her face what she read in his eyes. They hadn't thought to take precautions, but at their stage of life the risk was low, and not unwelcome.

Backing off of her, he found her clothes first and offered them up before tracking down the bits of his own. After several days occupancy, Mycroft was surprised his garments had spread so far across Molly's small flat. He'd only been in trousers, pants and shirt when they'd hastily undressed. He found his coat on the back of a chair, his jacket in the closet, his waistcoat under the cat, his pocket watch in the kitchen near the drying rack, and his wallet and keys on top of the telly. Embarrassed at how thoroughly he'd invaded her living space, her personal space, her body, in just three days of close confines, he felt the real world sinking back in.

She was watching him from over the rim of a coffee cup, leaning against the counter in her soiled pyjamas, a peachy tank top and plain green bottoms. Her gingery hair was wild about her shoulders, hanging in long tousled waves like a mermaid newly risen from the sea. It was a fantastical imagine, and Mycroft felt foolish for thinking it, for mentally picturing her a fierce, beautiful sea woman decorated with starfish and shells. He realized he was staring, his mouth dry.

"It's alright if you don't know what to say," she said with a confident sweetness. "You don't have to say anything. Thanks for being a spot of sunshine in a shit situation. My settee is open, whenever you have need of it."

Mycroft's huge intellect was working overtime, sorting through something appropriately kind and non-committal. He realized he hadn't said a word since Sherlock had left them to clean up, and that might be bad form. It was not like he was a complete novice at these things, but he certainly had neither the experience or the natural gift to make a graceful exit.

"How long will I need to stay clean to ensure that I never have to see your flabby backside again, Mycroft," came the acid question from the bedroom door. Sherlock was dressed, had packed up anything that had belong to either brother from Molly's bedroom, and was moving towards her flat door. "I think you've imposed on Doctor Hooper enough for one day, we should leave before we take up any more of her weekend."

"It's Thursday, and Mycroft was hardly the imposition, Sherlock," the little woman answered coldly. "It wasn't your brother vomiting in my hair while he explained in great detail my physical flaws and character defects, which will evidently prevent me from ever finding love, or persuading me that I should commit myself to science and admit I'll just die alone but for cats."

"I would never say such things to you, Molly," he started to argue, but after a moment, likely searching his mental database, he stopped. Mycroft arched an eye brow as his brother's expression fell. "I apologize, I was quite cruel, and you didn't deserve such treatment. Please forgive me."

She frowned, forming a response that Mycroft assumed would be honest but not unkind. There was no chance to deliver it, though.

"Wait, it's Thursday? Must dash, I have an appointment at Baker Street at noon."

And with that, he was gone out the door.

Mycroft knew he needed to take his leave and go after his brother, but still couldn't find the words he needed.

"Go on, Mr Holmes," she said with a smile. "I'm sure I'll see you next time someone interesting ends up on my table. Please be good to yourself."

He nodded, hands in pockets, and taking one last glance at her before the spell was completely broken, he allowed himself to remember her touch and taste and sounds, drink it all in. Then he stepped out the door back into his life, and pushed them from his mind.

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

Despite his promise of discretion, there were a few slips.

There was an unfortunate moment one late night at the office when Mycroft's phone was sitting innocently on his desk while he and his personal assistant reviewed the evening's outgoing post.

"This to the Finnish ambassador," he handed her a stack of unmarked white envelopes, "this to the Home Office," a small brown envelope like the kind a hotel keycard would fit. "This next group must be-" DING!

He paused, and both of them looked automatically to his phone. On screen was a photo text message of an unsuccessful pregnancy test, only the control line marked with lurid pink dye. A second noise, and a message followed: "All clear! xo MH". The top line, the label pulled from his contacts read clearly _Dr. Molly Hooper._

The personal assistant looked like Christmas had come early. Mycroft's ears were turning pink, and he slipped the phone into his breast pocket.

"Had a scare, did we, sir?" she said pleasantly. "Shall I add Dr Hooper to your personal gift list for birthdays and holidays?"

"That won't be necessary," he said tightly, "now if we can return to the task at hand." He checked his pocket watch to buy himself a moment of thought. _Why did she take a test instead of waiting for her regular cycle? If her cycle were affected by birth control, there'd be no cause for concern. Consistently unpredictable cycle? Either that, or she's late and got worried, in which case it could be a false negative. Focus._

The next slip was most certainly his own fault, as was everything that followed.

Sherlock had come out of his latest round of seediness somehow looking more chiselled and sleekly handsome than ever. Mycroft was feeling his extra years, mousey features, cushy job and thinning hair in comparison as they walked side by side down the street on their way to St Bart's. They were to view the body of a murdered American congressman who was ostensibly in London for a conference, and the elder brother's mind was already keenly aware that it would be his first meeting with Doctor Hooper since their days together.

Near the morgue entrance was a new sweet shop just opened, and Sherlock caught the momentary glance Mycroft gave the brightly coloured display of pastries in the window.

"I'd resist temptation on the sweets, Mycroft. Your breasts are already bigger than Molly Hooper's." He turned up the collar of his greatcoat despite the fact that they had arrived at their destination. _Like a peacock, preparing for his display._

"Funny you should mention them, brother mine, because I found them to be quite the mouthful and rather sweet." The mocking words came out before he could stop them, complete with an immature smirk. There at the entrance to the hospital, cigarettes slack in their shocked-open mouths, were Inspector Lestrade and Mike Stamford. He felt his stomach turn over with guilt and embarrassment, but he kept his voice cold. "I would personally appreciate it if you could forget what you just heard."

"Not a chance," Lestrade said, a wide grin spreading. "How on earth did his lord and mighty end up at second base with our favourite pathologist?"

"I assure you, Lestrade, those bases were rounded at least once, to continue your juvenile metaphor," Sherlock said with disgust. "I caught them in flagrante delicto on her living room settee at half ten in the morning."

Something inside of Mycroft, possibly a key portion of his dignity, up and died right there. He could feel his behaviour level sliding from immature to horrible, and there was nothing he could do to stop his pride from lashing out.

"Your obvious jealousy is unbecoming, Sherlock. You ignored Miss Hooper for nearly a decade, and she waited for you. Could you be surprised that the consequence of watching you fail to control your addiction over and over was that she was willing to throw any chance with you away for a trifling morning of meaningless congress with me." Mycroft stepped closer to his brother, and ignored the hurt look on his face to deliver his final blow in the same icy calm. "You've always known that you don't deserve her, Sherlock, and she's finally realized it too."

Mycroft pushed past the detective and the pathologist to enter the building, already ashamed at his outburst but with no intention of displaying it.

He saw Molly almost immediately through the observation window of the sterile room where she did post-mortems. She was head to toe in a hooded pale blue clean suit, a mask covering one half of her face, the other behind thick goggles. While he watched, she squeezed the contents of a disemboweled stomach onto a medical pan and began to poke around at them. _I should ask her to lunch,_ he thought suddenly. _I've shamed Sherlock for his treatment of her, but it wouldn't hurt for me to be at least_ \- he mentally cringed at the thought- _friendly._

Lestrade knocked on the window next to him, making him jump a little.

"Can we come in?" He shouted through the glass. She shook her head no, and pointed at the morgue doors. The trio of men waited in awkward silence in the large room, and Mike Stamford went back to his office. The tension between the Holmes brothers was palpable.

After what felt like an eternity, Molly came through the doors and began pulling off her disposable suit. Mycroft told himself that it would be absurd if he were to connect at all the removal of her clothes with a now-unwelcome erotic memory, and that it was only with detached disinterest that he watched her pull it down each leg. He had no opinion about the way she pulled her hair out from the back of her shirt and let it fall down her back, or about the reminder of hastily redressing as she slipped her lab coat back on. She washed her hands thoroughly and wiped her face down with a damp paper towel from where her goggles had left perspiration. _Did I wash my hands Thursday morning, after Sherlock interrupted us? Or did I just get dressed and leave. Good lord._

 _"_ I imagine you're all here about Mr Caranci," she said with a small, welcoming smile once she had set herself to rights and joined them. It only took a moment for her to read her audience. "What's happened? What's wrong with you all?"

"A bit of a family dispute, you could say, Molly," Lestrade finally answered when no one else would. "Yes, the American please. What can you tell us about him?"

Consulting a clip board of tidy notes, she rhymed off the relevant facts. Once complete, Sherlock fired a series of questions at her that she calmly answered.

In Mycroft's pocket his phone buzzed twice, urgent email. He scanned through the text of it.

"I'm sorry, may I use your office to make a private phone call?"

"Of course," she said, handing him the keyring from her pocket with only a three keys and a safety whistle on it. Their fingers brushed a moment, but he told himself that it was nothing, and certainly not a spark. After a short chat with his assistant, the crisis was resolved, and seeing he was off the phone through the window, Molly knocked and then let herself in.

"Now really," she said, "what's going on?"

"Sherlock seems to be having difficulties coming to terms with what he, ah, interrupted. He teased me in front of your colleagues, and I'm afraid I cut him rather badly," he admitted, again trying to repress any hint of shame or regret.

She leaned her back against the door, arms crossed. _Unimpressed._

"Is this going to be more complicated than anticipated, Mr Holmes? I've had one night stands before, but never with a friend's brother. Have you ever slept with one of Sherlock's goldfish before?"

"He told you about that, hm?" Mycroft fingered his watch in his pocket uncomfortably. "No, I can't say I have. All my previous liaisons have been with people well outside his sphere or knowledge."

"People? Not just women?" She cocked her head to one side, examining his face. _Blasted creature_.

"Would you care to have dinner with me, Doctor Hooper?" He asked suddenly, making deliberate steady eye contact with her. "Perhaps tomorrow? I could get reservations at this stunning little-"

"Why," she interrupted, not unkindly, but uncertain. "Decided to set up your own aquarium?"

"I can't say that interests me."

"Then what?"

"Perhaps I'm hoping to lure you back into my bed?" He asked casually.

"I've never been in your bed, Mr Holmes." A tiny smile was forming, and her expression was softening. She put her hands in the pockets of her lap coat, her stance opening. "And the man I invited into mine wasn't the polished government bureaucrat in the tailored suit with a fancy car and driver waiting outside, and likely some grand old lonely house somewhere."

"Oh?"

"No, he was a tired, dishevelled man with his heart laid bare, grateful for a cup of cheap tea and for any sleep he got on my dingy old couch. He was much more vulnerable, Mycroft, more human." She looked deep into his eyes, her pupils dilating as she saw something about him. "He could have me anytime."

Lumps came to both his throat and his pants.

"Besides," she finished lightly, teasing, "all those days in my flat, sharing take away, and you didn't notice that I'm a vegetarian? Those posh restaurants you frequent probably make even their bread with chicken broth and creamed liver."

Mycroft opened his mouth automatically to protest, pulling the menu of his favourite sets of restaurants from his memory, mentally reviewing the common recipes used to achieve those dishes and flavours, and changed tack.

"You could choose the venue," he said, wondering why he was pushing this.

"Anywhere? Would your palate not be horrified?"

"Well I assume we wouldn't be eating anything with _mc_ in the name, or bathed in a deep fryer."

"Ethiopian? There's a great place near mine. And maybe if things go well, you could convince me that you're more than a Holmes-brand automaton."

"I should hope you would remember that." He pursed his lips, a little sullen. Molly touched his face gently.

"We had sex, and it was great, but I don't know you. The fact that you've even asked me out for a chat goes against what little I did think I knew about your character."

"You don't behave the way I expect you to behave," he admitted. "You're so easy to read, but so hard to predict. I'd like to find out what makes you the person my brother goes to when he won't go to anyone else. There's clearly more to you than I anticipated, and you seem to have an affect on me that I'm willing to say is unique." He leaned into her touch, allowing her hand to rest on his shoulder

"I've been called unique before," she said pleasantly. He silently acknowledged, taking in her silly jumper, the cat poster on her office wall, and the large stack of research studies on her desk about brain dissections, that some would go so far as to call her odd. "But never by someone so strange himself. So to clarify, are you asking me on a date?"

"I hadn't intended to, but that seems to be the direction it's going. Initially I meant this to be a simple chance to smooth things over. I have no interest in romantic attachments or playing at sentiment."

"Just some psychoanalysis, potentially followed by sex."

"If the mood strikes."

She considered him a moment.

"Alright, but it won't just be me talking and you judging me."

He nodded, wondering how much honesty she would expect, and how careful he'd need to be.

"Text me details. I'm off at 4pm tomorrow, but I imagine your schedule is less predictable than mine. I've got to go figure out how Mrs Figg died, if you'll excuse me.

The last slip was Sherlock's revenge for Mycroft's cruelty. It was a blow so low that it was nearly unprecedented in their long conflict, one he thought they'd silently agreed would be counted a war crime.

One new voicemail on his phone:

"Mike, it's your Mum. Sherlock's just told us and we're so excited. Please call as soon as you can, we'd love to hear all about this new girlfriend. When can we meet her? Love you! Bye!"


	3. Chapter 3

Molly was correct in assuming his schedule would be more difficult to suit than hers. Thanks to an international crisis involved several embarrassingly British citizens, it took nearly a week to meet at _Addis Ababa._

Two hours later, and Mycroft had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows to keep them clean as he ate his way through the meal Molly had chosen for him. He hadn't told her how unappetizing it looked when it had arrived, or his suspicion that the low prices on the menu were an indication of forthcoming food poisoning. He hadn't mentioned his horror at being expected to eat with his hands, and hadn't felt the need to admit that he was enjoying the food and experience far beyond his expectations. The coffee alone would have had his stamp of approval, the beans roasted to order in a pan on the kitchen stove before being ground and brewed. He was on his third, and was wired.

He was half way through an amusing story about him and Sherlock as boys when Molly interrupted him with a soft touch at his wrist.

"How did you get that? I didn't notice it before."

In the soft candlelight of the table centrepiece, a shiny scar like a burn was flickering across his skin. He held both arms out for her examination, the damaged skin forming a line across both.

"Legwork."

She ran a finger across the marks, considering them.

"These aren't heat burns. Bindings. Rough ones, not hand cuffs or zip ties, more like rope. The uneven weight distribution indicates your hands weren't bound together, but separately. Most common scenario would be something like a lengthy interrogation, or torture." She looked up at his face, regret in her eyes. "I apologize for prying, that's likely a very traumatic memory."

"I don't say this often, but you're clever, Doctor Hooper," he sighed. "I spent a great deal of time earning my stripes before I opted to stay behind a desk and _play god_ , as Sherlock says."

"And what sort of god are you, Mr Holmes?" She began playing with a piece of flatbread, rolling and unrolling it, uncomfortable.

"Most of the time I find myself speaking like the god of the old testament. A wayward people bound to find trouble, and I save and smite with equal vigour," he said wryly.

"You don't have to answer this," Molly prefaced, and he could hear the hesitation in her voice. He watched the tiny adjustments in her expression as she fought with herself.

"You want to know if I've killed anyone. If I'm a murderer, or a psychopath or a sociopath, like Sherlock," he stated quietly, keeping his voice from being overheard at nearby tables. She nodded. "Yes, I've killed a lot of people, Molly. Both by pulling the trigger myself, or giving the go ahead for a job, or having to make a hard decision about the greater good."

Her hands were still on the table close to his. He rested his back inside of hers.

"There is a lot of blood on my hands, and that's something I feel like you have a right to know before you decide whether you want me in your life, or your bed, or your social circle in any capacity. I know you've accepted Sherlock back, despite all he's done, but some of the things I've done would horrify even him. You have only my word that I have done it all, and will continue to do it all, for the good of this country."

In the long silence that followed, he watched Molly stare at his hands in hers. He began to feel his vulnerability keenly, wishing they were in a less intimate setting, or a more familiar setting for him. Ten metres apart in a secret warehouse, or across a solid oak desk at his club, or with bulletproof glass and a microphone speaker. The waiter came and set down the bill on a plastic tray. Perhaps sensing the tension, he said nothing and disappeared quickly.

"Should I settle the bill and go?" He asked in nearly a whisper, recovering his hands, and reaching for his pocketbook. She shook her head.

"Don't go, and it's my treat, I asked you to come here."

"But you're still not sure how you feel about what I've told you."

"No, but I shouldn't be as surprised as I am. Logically, knowing what I do know about the power you seem to exude when you are working in an official capacity, the lack of warmth in your public attempts at pleasantry, your general callousness to mankind, paired with your uncommon patience and love for the damaged goods that is your brother, it all points to a man who is capable of choosing whether someone lives or dies, so long as it serves a purpose."

She paused, and he sensed that she had more to say.

"Go on," he encouraged.

"Do you ever feel remorse?"

He sat back, swallowing down his defensive urge to immediately say no.

"Do you, as a citizen of this country, generally feel safe, Molly? To go to work, to go out to the shops, to be alone, to be in public, to sleep at night?"

"Yes, I suppose I do."

"Would you say that's the general feeling of your fellow citizens?"

She nodded.

"Then I can't say I regret the decisions that brought us here, difficult or even wrong as they may have been."

"I wonder if Sherlock is mistaken about you, Mycroft," she observed, taking a sip of her coffee, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. "I don't think you're detached from people or isolated."

"No?"

"No, I think you're overwhelmed by the responsibility a father feels for his children, a nation of children, their welfare in your hands. You don't lack the capacity to relate to them, far from it, you lack the ability to detach from that relationship. You mock sentiment, but you've given your life and time and health and sacrificed it all for that love. Sherlock thinks this is all a big chess match for you, the thrill of the great game, but it's not, it's fierce and protective and personal."

"I'm feeling quite naked at the moment, Doctor Hooper," Mycroft said eventually. "I don't necessarily agree with you, but I feel like you're attempting to get at the root of me."

"Would you like to be naked?" She asked smoothly, setting down her cup and reaching into her carrier bag for her wallet. Leaving a generous tip with the note she placed on the cheque tray, she stood up and held out her hand to him. He considered the situation a moment before he took her hand, gathered up his jacket, and allowed her to lead him out of the little restaurant.

It only took a few minutes before they were at her flat door, and only a few seconds after that that he kissed her. Tangling his fingers in her long, sweet-smelling hair, he pressed her back into the door, cradling her head carefully so that it wouldn't be uncomfortable against the wood.

Wishing that he wasn't so full of lentils and beans, wishing he wasn't middle-aged, he wished he could lift her up and take her right there against the door like a hero in a pot-boiler novel until she was thoroughly ravished. Instead he took his time making sure they were both comfortable, and when she reached for his tie, he asked if they could go to her bed.

He was pleased that his memory hadn't been boosted by fear and fatigue. She felt and tasted and sounded better than he had remembered, and he relished being generous to her. It was the one arena he had found where she was greedy, soaking up his attentions, and he gave freely. He loved watching the rise and fall of her breasts as her breathing altered, the tremble in her thighs, the way she raised her chin and arched, and most of all the way she pulled him back to her again and again to her mouth for long, intimate kisses, reconnecting them. He wanted her to feel worshipped, feel devoured, feel adored, because he knew he had nothing else to offer her. When they were nearly spent, it was the sound of his name on her lips that pushed him over the edge. This time it was Mycroft who cried out, pressing his mouth into her trapezius to smother it.

They lay there panting, entwined, and his mind was utterly blank, clear of everything. She stroked his hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead, all she could reach from where his face lay pillowed on her chest. He raised himself up on shaking forearms to gently capture her mouth.

There was a knock at the flat door.

"Fuck right off," she said towards the door, knowing whoever was on the other side wouldn't be able to hear her. "I'm not expecting anyone."

There was a second, more insistent knock.

Molly grudgingly slipped out of the warm bed, and pulled on a dark green dressing gown of heavy silk, embroidered along the borders with white and gold. He thought that it might be his current haze, but nothing had ever looked so beautiful on her.

She had barely cracked the door when a familiar voice cut through.

"I need to speak to Mr Holmes immediately. It's urgent, and we can't reach him by phone."

Groaning internally, he remembered that he'd switched his phone to silent for dinner, a highly unusual move for him. Reaching for it, he saw a dozen missed calls, unread text messages, and emails. He switched the volume back on, and began throwing on his clothes. Realizing the majority of them were likely in the living room, he decided to just get on with it, and went out in his trousers and shirt to collect the rest. Molly has allowed his PA into the flat, and switched on the kitchen light.

"Sir, there's a crisis, you're needed immediately. I've got a change of clothes waiting for you in the jet, and packed you for a week's absence. Your appointments have been cleared until your return, and I signed out your firearm, it's in the plane." He nodded while he did up his many buttons and fasteners, hooking his watch chain carefully and tucking the sacred artefact back in it's special pocket.

"How did you know where to find him," Molly asked her.

The woman who called herself Anthea looked to her boss for direction to answer.

"Your home has been under a low level passive surveillance since you first became friends with my brother, Doctor Hooper, for your own safety. They likely noted my entrance tonight."

Expecting her to bristle at the knowledge, she simply shrugged.

"Seems prudent."

Loathe to leave, and dreading the next week and whatever fresh hell it had unexpectedly brought his way, he drank in the sight of her once again. This time his imagination led him to fashion her wild hair, sex-darkened eyes and lovely robe as an Anglo-Saxon princess who had chosen him as her prize. Her expression claimed him, and he found that he liked it.

"I'll meet you in the car," he told his aide, dismissing her. She directed an analytical look at him and then Molly, and then turned on a heel and left clicking sharply down the corridor.

"She doesn't approve."

Mycroft shrugged.

"That hardly matters," he said cooly. "She's capable and competent, but she's not employed to critique my personal life."

"I doubt she's used to you having a personal life."

"You're probably right. That's going to be a spectacular mark on your shoulder, my apologies if I was overenthusiastic or if it hurt," he touched the red mark above her collar.

"I had hoped you would be able to stay the night," she said lightly, "perhaps if there's a next time."

"I think I'd like that. I'm sorry to go so suddenly." He angled his head to the side and looked her up and down again. "You look like a woman out of a Dante Rossetti painting right now. I could spend the rest of the night gazing at you like fine art, with a glass of wine and a forbidden cigarette."

"Will you be safe? She mentioned a gun." Molly was undeterred by the compliment.

"It's solely for my protection, should things go wrong. It's highly unlikely they'll go so wrong that I need to use it, however, where I'm guessing that I'm going always has the potential for danger to flare up quickly. If you like I'll give you a ring when I'm back, let you know I survived."

"Please," she agreed. Both debating on how to end the evening, Molly stepped forward and kissed him. He let his hands find what were becoming familiar spots on her hips and backside, caressing her, gathering up fabric between his fingers. Inside his jacket pocket his phone began buzzing and beeping, and they broke apart.

"Duty calls," he said finally, letting himself out the flat door. Molly popped her head into the corridor and silently watched him walk out. His posture and attitude changed with each step, become taller, straighter, more authoritative. It was not this that surprised her, it was realizing how low his guard had become with her already before he had needed to pull it back up.

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

By the end of the week, the drafts mailbox of his texts had filled with the dozens of messages he had composed and then filed unsent. For some reason nothing had seemed appropriate. Now with his latest, he stared at the screen, thumb hovering between send and file.

"Mycroft: Arriving home at 11:30pm tonight. Would you care to meet me at mine for a nightcap?"

He hit send, and slumped back into the rich, leather plane seat. He'd already spent the return trip drinking, but hoped she wouldn't mind. His personal assistant sat several rows back, using her coat as a blanket as she slept, and several security agents were playing a quiet game of poker near the washrooms. Everyone was tired, but he was the only one who got to go straight home after. Agents would need to be debriefed by the team waiting at the office, and his assistant would be filing notes and memos until dawn. If things were in good shape when he arrived at 9am tomorrow, he'd let her go home, otherwise she'd work a regular day.

"Doctor Hooper: Sounds good, send address."

He sent her his address, and the gate code, and for good measure the door code in case she beat him there and wanted to let herself in through the back. They ran into a landing conflict at the airport, the private strip was under repairs, and he poured himself a last single-malt while they circled in the air.

"Doctor Hooper: I'm here, and I must say I'm disappointed."

"Mycroft: Oh?"

"Doctor Hooper: No moat, no dragons, no fortifications. What's the point of having a castle if you're not going to defend it properly."

"Mycroft: Apologies, will procure dragon immediately."

"Doctor Hooper: I guarantee you this place is haunted. Do you know how many people have died in this house since 1667? ALL OF THEM. Also, nice heritage plaque."

"Mycroft: Still waiting to land. Liquor cabinet is in library, wine is in kitchen. Have fun."

"Doctor Hooper: Squatters rights tell me that if I refuse to leave this gorgeous library, it's eventually mine. Brb, packing and retrieving cat."

"Doctor Hooper: Have you had dinner? I can put together something easy to have ready for us."

"Mycroft: Only whiskey since lunch."

"Doctor Hooper: So I've already got something easy and ready for me, hm?"

"Mycroft: Appallingly salacious and accurate. Landing now."

"Doctor Hooper: I assume that's some sort of posh euphemism."

"Doctor Hooper: Who doesn't own a single tinned soup? Why do you have so many cupboards but no food?"

"Mycroft: Confession, I'm a terrible cook."

"Doctor Hooper: Terrible cooks should have MORE tinned soup in their homes, not less."

"Mycroft: Go have a glass of wine."

"Doctor Hooper: Have you been bossing people around all week and now you're going to go boss me around?"

"Mycroft: Would you like that?"

"Doctor Hooper: I picked a bottle at random. According to the label this wine is old enough to drive next year. What do you have in a cheap, young and plentiful?"

"Mycroft: Anything from Niagara, should have _VQA_ on the neck."

"Doctor Hooper: Mission accomplished. Come home. Two glasses of this and I'll likely be pantsless and wildly open to suggestion."

"Mycroft: I'm on my way."

Mycroft tucked his phone into his breast pocket, and gathered his jacket, coat and briefcase. Descending the slippery steps to the tarmac in the rain, he found himself incredibly impatient to be home.

It was for the best that the driver was the one in charge of remembering his luggage. When they pulled up to the door of the 17th century now-suburban great house, Mycroft sprang out as best as a tired, wee bit drunk, middle-aged man could spring, and headed straight for the front door. The driver was only a few steps behind him, and left everything neatly in the entrance way corridor out of the weather.

"Welcome home," a warm voice called from his library. He cleaned his shoes, hung up his coat, dropped his umbrella into the stand, and slid his briefcase into the discreet locking portion of the hall table. He emptied his pockets into a Byzantine glass bowl, and put his phone on the charger next to it. The familiar was done, now to proceed to the unfamiliar.

Feeling less confident, but cautiously excited about his guest, he went to greet her. His library was top to bottom, wall to wall built in bookshelves complete with rail and ladder. On his sofa, Molly was in a black cabled jumper and beige trousers, legs curled under an afghan of deep green merino, hair in a simple braid over her shoulder. A half full glass of white wine sat on the little table beside her, and he smiled to notice, a nearly empty bottle of riesling beside it, glinting in the firelight. She used the ribbon bookmark attached to the spine to mark her place in what appeared to be some sort of Bronte. The scene was like a photo definition of the word _cosy_.

"You've gone through a lot of trouble filling this library with reproductions," she said. "I had you marked as someone who would track down the originals."

"I considered it," he said, pulling a glass from the bar and pouring himself some of her wine. He sat down next to her on the couch and pulled her legs across his lap. "But what's the point of a room full of books you shouldn't touch, and could damage by reading, in a place where books are meant to be used? No, I leave originals for researchers, I prefer my library to be useful. The house came with quite a few, none connected to the founding family of course, just collected over the years, but I donated the majority to the Bodleian."

"You've amassed a fascinating collection. All the classics, of course, but there are many curiosities in here."

He picked up the book she had placed on the table and read the spine.

"And with all those curiosities, you selected _Jane Eyre_. I would hazard you've read this book a number of times, judging by the fact that you've skipped her childhood and gone straight to Thornfield."

"I selected a book I could enjoy tipsy in a strange house, waiting for who knows what of a night, with a man who is still mostly a stranger," she corrected. "It seemed appropriate."

"How was your day," he asked, alarm bells going off in his mind at the picture of domesticity they were presenting together. He ignored them.

"Cut up a lot of dead people." She shrugged. "Found a golf ball in a man's upper colon. That was the highlight of the day. Accepting that you can't give me details, how was your trip?"

"Hard to tell, at this point. Lots of sitting and talking and arguing, but few clear results. I'll know more in the morning." He rubbed at his face, which was numb with fatigue.

"You're back in first thing?" He nodded. "Maybe I should tuck you in and head home, you must be exhausted," she said gently.

"Please stay," he asked. "Let's finish our night from a week ago."

"Alright, that sounds lovely. But you're drunk and I'm on my way there, so we shouldn't get too ambitious."

Molly pulled off the blanket, crawled off of the settle, and switched off the gas fireplace. She collected the dirty glasses and the empty bottle, deposited them in the kitchen, and then promptly returned for Mycroft's hand.

"Do you need anything out of your suitcase tonight?"

He shook his head no, and they made their way up the central staircase. Her overnight bag was on the floor at the top step. He showed her which room he used, and closed the door behind them. Molly looked around at the comfortable arrangement. It was a blend of traditional luxury and clean modern, in fine greys and rich brown woods, and it was clear that this room was used only for sleeping. There were no reading chairs, no desks, no distractions, and barely any personal items. He pointed out which door was the en suite, which the large closet, and which lead to a sitting room.

"Tonight may not be the playful welcome-home romp you had anticipated," Molly said with a smile, feeling very small in the grand room. He felt equally self-conscious, having her in his most private of spaces. "But let's make the best of it," she continued, turning to him and carefully unfastening his watch chain from his waistcoat. She carefully put the ornament down on the bedside table and began working down his buttons.

He slipped his jacket off and laid it on the hard wooden chair near the closet, followed in steady succession by the rest of his clothes. When his chest and shoulders were bare, she began to place random, slow kisses on his skin. He helped her out of her jumper, and the black tank top she had worn underneath, and then debated on whether he should remove the highly impractical but fascinatingly designed brassiere she had on under that. He cupped her breasts, weighed them in his palms, and the result was that the lacy scrap was disposed of so he could explore them.

Feeling their years, feeling the days, feeling the effects of the alcohol, they moved at a pace that was slow, getting the most out of every touch and movement. The more sober of the two, she was on top, her long hair tormenting his skin where it stroked his knees, his sides and chest. He watched her face, so visible from this angle, and was fascinated by the thousand indications in her expression of her pleasure, of concern for his, of thoughtful minor adjustments or changes. The moment before he finished he was overwhelmed with a feeling he recognized and dismissed as chemical: possessive. He gripped her hips tightly, helping her to her own end, and when they were done he held her face and kissed her. She nestled closely against him, contentment in her eyes.

This time there was no one to disturb them. No one to wake them. In fact no alarms set at all.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun was shining brightly behind the curtains when they awoke, both going from rested, hazy greetings, to oh-my-god-is-that-time-time rushing. It was nearly 9am, and they were most definitely late. Mycroft showered while Molly brushed her teeth and hair, and washed her face.

"I can drop you off at Bart's on my way in," he called over the water.

"Thanks, much appreciated." She found her clean clothes in her overnight bag and began to dress. He switched off the water, pulled back the curtain, and felt gloriously awkward. Completely naked, wet, and vulnerable, he stared at the calm, neat, clothed pathologist. She smiled, and handed him a towel.

"You know, you shouldn't be so self-conscious," she said kindly, "because you're really rather marvellous."

"I appreciate the sentiment, my dear, but evidence doesn't support that. I'm led to believe I'm an arrogant, pretentious, know-it-all with an inability to see the value in others."

"That's as may be, but I was talking about the sex," she said wryly. "I don't really have much else to go on."

Her response startled him into laughter, and it sounded good. She packed up her overnight bag, and settled on the end of the bed to watch him dress. His wardrobe was a fortune in tailoring, designer names, and expensive fabrics.

"I suppose," she continued, "all you really know of me is that I had a silly crush on your little brother, flaunt middle class tastes, and don't have much ambition for greatness."

"And happen to be a goddess in bed, or settee, as required," Mycroft said with unusual humour. "You know, something that always reassured me about you, when I question the people who gravitate to Sherlock, was your MI6 file. To the best of our agents' knowledge, your ambitions and foibles were all hopelessly innocent."

She shot him a sultry look while he tried to fasten his cufflinks, her voice low.

"And do you still find my proclivities innocent?"

His fingers fumbled on the tiny gold bits and one fell to the floor.

"I think we share a similar morality when it comes to sexual matters," he said quickly. "If you enjoy my company as much as I enjoy yours, and there are no misplaced romantic expectations, I can't see any harm to anyone."

"I'll give you a ring next time I'm in the mood for that romp," she teased.

"Please do," he answered more seriously than he intended. He met her eyes. "I've greatly enjoyed your company, something I haven't said too many times in my life."

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

"Mr Holmes, do you have a minute?"

Mycroft looked up from his phone, and frowned at Lady Smallwood. Around him, the rest of the table of similar men in similar suits had risen and were filing out, the meeting finished. She stood at the window, looking down into the gardens far below. He gathered his folio, and put away his meeting supplies.

To be honest, he couldn't remember much of the meeting that had just passed. He had just received his first message from Molly Hooper since he had dropped her off at work several days earlier, and it had derailed his mental train.

The lovely, polished woman looked around, and watched the last man clear the room. They were alone.

"This is hardly my business unless it becomes necessary, and I doubt you would be so foolish as to let that happen, but I feel like I should inform you that you have the _affair face_ on," she said crisply, not looking at him.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," he said, offended.

"I know that term doesn't truly apply to you, as you are not already married, but after many years I have come to recognize the face of a man who is caught up in an affair." She held up her hand to him to cut him off. "I don't expect you to confirm or deny anything, and as I say, it's not currently my business. Let me just pass on a word of advice. I hope you are making wise decisions, and I wish you happy, you deserve it, but be on your guard. If I can see it, no telling who else may."

She watched Mycroft's eyes turn inward, thinking, and left him to it. He looked again at his phone.

"Doctor Hooper: Nearly killed your brother. Am currently stroppy and ready to eviscerate the living. Could channel rage into lust if provided opportunity. Bring extra pants and a toothbrush, you wouldn't be going home tonight."

A small, scared part of him admitted that perhaps his involvement with Molly Hooper was capable of being unknowingly displayed on his face.

He called his assistant, keeping his voice cool.

"Any idea what my brother was getting up to at St Bart's today?"

"I'll check, sir." There was a long pause, and keyboard tapping.

"It appears he attempted to steal several body parts from the morgue, and interrupted a sensitive post-mortem, contaminating the room. When confronted by Doctor Hooper, he- oh dear."

"Go on," Mycroft said through clenched teeth, knowing what would come next.

"He made a number of comments about an alleged… liaison between herself and you, sir, claiming her behaviour and judgment was being manipulated against him as part of your sibling rivalry."

"And this is all in our security report?"

"Yes, sir."

"Delete the report."

He hung up abruptly, something she was used to.

"Mycroft: Will acquire extra pants and toothbrush."

"Doctor Hooper: Be forewarned, I won't be gentle." He groaned internally.

"Mycroft: Neither shall I. Select safe word."

"Doctor Hooper: Rainbow unicorns."

"Mycroft: That's appalling."

"Doctor Hooper: That's the point."

It was six hours later that Mycroft knocked on her flat door, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. The door opened, and she pulled him inside. Forcing him back against the door, she kissed him hard. He felt her hands go straight to his trousers. Within seconds he was inside of her, and the next morning, despite his excellent memory and a roadmap of red marks and scratches on his shoulders, back, chest and bum, he had a hard time recalling the portions of the evening when he hadn't been.

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

The abrasions and bites from that encounter hadn't even begun to fade when disaster struck. Sunday afternoon found Molly splayed out on Mycroft's solid oak Elizabethan dining room table, with him feasting on her. They were too absorbed to hear the knock at the door, the spare key in the lock, or the halloo in the hall. With no need to be quiet, they weren't.

'Mikey? What's that strange noise? Sherlock said you'd likely be here, we're in town just for the afternoon - oh god."

Mycroft pulled his face away from his task, comprehending the full horror of the moment.

Half an hour later they were all sitting in silence in the parlour, drinking the whiskey his father had poured for all four of them, unasked. They hasn't said a word yet, none of them. No one could even look at the others.

Their clothes hadn't even been in the same room, they'd had to go naked to find them before they could even start covering up.

Recovered to a certain degree, though no less humiliated, Molly was the first to finally break the ice.

"I should be going," she said, putting her empty glass down on the coffee table. She caught Mycroft's eye and blushed deeply.

"No, dear, we need to sort this out, or we'll likely never get to see you again," said Mrs Holmes firmly. "I apologize for spoiling your afternoon, and for all the embarrassment we caused. It never occurred to us that Mycroft may, er…"

"My need for basic privacy has always alluded you," he snapped back, not waiting for her to finished the awkward sentence.

"So how long have the two of you been together?" Asked Mr Holmes brightly, topping up Molly's glass. Molly looked at Mycroft, who seemed absorbed by swirling his whiskey slowly.

"We're not, sir. I won't pretend, we're actually more like casual friends who occasionally sleep together. There's nothing, um, romantic or anything. And not long."

"Long enough that there are old hickies down your collar, Mikey," his mother said sternly. He tugged the top button of his shirt together and fastened it. "And Sherlock told us about Miss Hooper weeks ago, remember dear? I just didn't expect to find such a display. And on a Sunday! And in the dining room, where people eat!" She slammed her nearly full glass down on the table in front of her. Mr Holmes raised a hand to calm his wife, her cheeks pink. She composed herself. "Just tell me that you're being safe, the two of you."

Mycroft groaned and covered his eyes with his hands.

"No, I know the things that go around even with older people, Mikey, and just last spring my friend Eula got the clap at a couples retreat in Oklahoma. Plus I want to know if grandchildren are now on the table. God knows you boys have been telling me your whole lives not to expect any." She didn't seem to realize her amusing turn of phrase, but Mr Holmes let out a wispy little snicker.

Molly, seeing Mycroft was still indisposed in horror, answered for them both.

"As I said, our acquaintance is pretty casual, Mrs Holmes. I wouldn't expect anything from it, and it could end at any time if we chose. But I am a medical doctor, and I wouldn't allow Mycroft or myself to be exposed to anything harmful, I assure you."

"Oh that's right," Mr Holmes said suddenly, lighting up. "You're the girl who helped the boys with Sherlock's disappearing act. Thank you for that, Miss Hooper."

"You're welcome, sir," Molly said with a small smile.

"It's _Doctor_ Hooper," Mycroft snapped. "She's a highly respected pathologist and surgeon at one of the finest teaching hospitals in the country. At least do her that courtesy after mortifying her entirely."

His mother leaned across the table and patted his knee.

"I'm glad you like her, Mycroft. Let us know if you two get to the point where we can have you round for dinner together."

"It was nice to meet you, dear," said Mr Holmes, "we should leave you kids to your afternoon, though." He stood, offering his hand to his wife.

"I imagine you haven't met Molly's parents either, then, Mycroft, with this _arrangement_ you have going," she said, a hint of mocking in her voice. They all walked to the front door, and Mycroft opened it wide.

"I'm afraid I don't have any family," Molly responded kindly, showing the statement didn't upset her, at least anymore. "I lost my Dad five years ago, he was the last of them. It's just me now."

"No wonder you are such a good friend, then," Mrs Holmes said warmly, putting a hand to Molly's cheek in a manner that Mycroft found overfamiliar. "I hope my boys reciprocate and treat you well." She pressed a kiss to Mycroft's barely tolerating cheek, and Mr Holmes clapped his son on the shoulder affectionately.

From the beautifully landscaped walk, before the door closed, Mycroft and Molly both heard his parents' final comments before they got to their car.

"Judging by the act we walked in on, I'd say Mycroft is treating her quite well, dear. And I didn't hear a clear _no_ about the grandchildren question."

"When I gave him a peck, his face still smelled like quim," she responded with a snort.

"Dear God, we can still hear you!" Mycroft shouted out the door before slamming it shut. He leaned his head against it, eyes closed.

"I am so, so sorry about all of that. That was utterly humiliating."

Molly laughed, and rubbed her hands on his shoulders reassuringly.

"We have the worst luck. We survived though, and they're delightful."

"They are the absolute worst."

"You know you're a bit childish around them? Were you this dramatic as a child?" She teased, giving his back a final pat before wandering off to the library to see if she had missed anything in her haste, and to give the dining room table a good scrub. He was still leaning against the door when she returned.

"How about you go make a pot of tea while I pack up. We'll sit and have a quiet chat, get our brains back together after that shock, and then I'll head out."

He nodded, and went off to perform the menial task. By the time the water had boiled he was feeling more himself.

"You don't have to rush off just because my parents caught us like a pair of teenagers," he said politely when she dropped her bag by the door, "though I understand the urge."

"Much more practical than that," she laughed. "I still need to do laundry, clip Toby's nails, change the linens, hoover the carpet, do groceries. All those weekend chores I've left undone being here."

"Makes sense," he said, feeling slightly guilty that all those things were done for him by a discreet and well-paid staff.

"And I imagine the country doesn't stop every time you feel a bit randy," she pointed out, listening to the distinctive sound of his phone vibrating on the marble countertop. "Do you need to take that?"

There were several missed calls, all from the assistant director of intelligence, or his staff.

"I do," he apologized, answering the phone call with the clipped, cold voice she realized she heard less and less of as their familiarity grew.

She watched his face age and darken as he listened to the person at the other end of the line, reading great rage and great sorrow in equal parts in his eyes and expression.

"What arrangements have been made," he asked, his voice going icy. His body thrummed with tension. Molly poured the water into the teapot, replaced the lid, and pointed for herself to leave. He jerked his head no, eyes suddenly boring into hers. "Have her body delivered to Bart's when forensics are done, and prepare security clearance for Doctor Molly Hooper to perform the post-mortem. No, I will contact her myself." He hung up, and stood like a statue, unseeing.

"Can you tell me some of what's happened without breaching your confidentiality?" She asked gently.

"My personal assistant was just found dead in my office. No obvious cause of death."


	5. Chapter 5

"What arrangements have been made," he asked, his voice going icy. His body thrummed with tension. Molly poured the water into the teapot, replaced the lid, and pointed for herself to leave. He jerked his head no, eyes suddenly boring into hers. "Have her body delivered to Barts when forensics are done, and prepare security clearance for Doctor Molly Hooper to perform the post-mortem. No, I will contact her myself." He hung up, and stood like a statue, unseeing.

"Can you tell me some of what's happened without breaching your confidentiality?" She asked gently.

"My personal assistant was just found dead in my office. No obvious cause of death."

"That posh young woman who was at my door? I'm so sorry to hear that, she seemed nice. Did I hear that you'd like me to help?"

He nodded, responded mechanically, still processing all the possibilities.

"The body should be arriving soon, they're almost done sweeping the office."

"Mycroft," she said softly, calling him back. "Would you like to take a minute alone? Or to come sit with me a moment?" He looked at her, returning to himself.

"Thank you, Molly, but we should go, if you are willing."

"Of course. Would you like to change? You might feel better in your normal office clothes."

He looked down at his thrown together shirt and trousers and nodded, going up to his room without another word. By the time he had finished, Molly had the tea ready and handed him a cup to drink hot while they waited for the car to come around. He filled his pockets from the bowl by the door, and she helped him into his coat and scarf. She could smell that he'd patted a very small amount of after shave on post-shower.

They didn't speak much on the trip into the centre of town. Not having expected to go into work herself, she tried to make herself neater, and he watched with mild interest her practiced hands plait her hair and bind it up. His mind was surprisingly quiet. The initial news of the death of the woman known publicly as Anthea had mapped out all the possibilities, and until he knew the cause of death, they all had to wait.

"You know, she was the daughter of possibly the closest thing I've had to a friend," Mycroft said suddenly. "I met her when she was just a little girl. The day I told her that her father had died on a mission, she told me that she was going to be an agent like him. Never had the right aptitude for field work, but to be honest, I was just as happy to keep Keith's daughter safe in my office. There was this one time in Beirut-"

Molly cut him off gently.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft, I know that you're grieving and you want to talk, and I'm absolutely here to listen, but do you think you could tell me about her after we complete the post-mortem? If I become too emotionally invested, I could lose objectivity and not perform it well, and that would be a disservice to her."

He nodded, and went back to silence. She felt terribly selfish, but held firm. They entered the morgue together, and Anthea's body was waiting under a blue sheet, visible through the observation window. Molly disappeared into her office to take off her coat and sweater, and to her surprise, Mycroft followed her and removed his coat and jacket, hanging them up on the rack beside hers.

"I'm coming in," he explained. She put a hand on his chest and shook her head.

"You can't come in. You'll distract me. You can watch in the observation room, I'll turn the microphone on."

"I don't think you have the authority to keep me out of that room," he said arrogantly, trying to leave past her. He read the hurt she was trying to hide, that he caused, but she held him back still.

"I'm not ordering you as a doctor, Mr Holmes. I'm saying as the person who was fucking you a few hours ago, I'm not comfortable trying to stand next to you in there and pretend that your presence and all the things you're currently feeling won't effect my judgement or ability."

He let his arms fall to the sides.

"What if you miss something?"

"Then you chose the wrong pathologist," she said, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. "You asked me to do this, Mr Holmes, I didn't volunteer. Now I'm happy to help, but you will respect me as a scientist and let me do my job."

He watched her leave the office, and walk calmly to scrub and dress. She was meticulous, thorough, skilled, observant, all the things that had made him appreciate her work to begin with. He watched with detachment as she examined and opened up the body of the woman he had spent nearly all day, every day with for the previous decade or more. Sherlock appeared part way through, and stood with him for nearly an hour in silence before leaving again. Mycroft didn't know how he had known, but he appreciated the gesture more than he would let on.

When it came to an end, they had their answer. Anthea probably had no idea she even had a brain tumour, located where it had been. There would be further lab work to rule out unlikely additional causes in her blood and stomach contents, but Mycroft was satisfied. He called Anthea's assistant, newly promoted to his assistant, to make the funeral arrangements with the mother and submit the expenses to the office.

Molly returned to her office quite some time later, paperwork completed and filed, everything cleared away. To her surprise, Mycroft was still there at her desk, answering emails on his phone.

"I owe you an apology," he began, not looking up. "I was rude and hurtful, and I'm sorry. You're excellent at what you do, and I have absolute faith in your judgment." He put his phone away and got up. "That said, with consideration, I'm not entirely sure if I believe you, about things impairing your judgment while you work. I think, after all I've seen of your work, that you are capable of a remarkable detachment, caused by your skill, talent, and borderline psychopathic enthusiasm. So what I'm left to wonder is why the lie?"

"Nightmares," she answered simply, surprising him with her honesty.

"Nightmares," he repeated slowly.

"If I know too much about the person I'm dissecting, it doesn't bother me at the time, but I get terrible nightmares. Seems silly, so I didn't want to mention it."

He was torn on asking the next question. There were a lot of variables and sub-decisions involved, weighing and balancing. Molly was giving him a sympathetic look, and easily found the words he was struggling with.

"I imagine you have a lot to do now, and it doesn't really fit our sex-based MO, but if you'd like a friend tonight, you're welcome to come sleep at mine." She opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a single key on a squishy rugby ball keychain. The name of a high school was written in faded letters on the leather. "I doubt you need a key to get into most places in Britain," she teased gently, "but use it tonight if you'd like to, and if you don't, you know where it goes. Keep it as long as you like."

That night, after a very long evening of meetings with his staff, and setting up an emergency training program with his new PA, Mycroft hesitated outside the car. It was well after midnight. He fingered the key in his pocket.

"Home, sir?" The driver asked, stifling a yawn.

Mycroft committed, giving Molly's address instead. The lights were off under the door, so he used the key and let himself in quietly. The bedroom light was on. He slipped off his outerwear and shoes, and emptied his pockets onto the kitchen counter. With quiet steps, he went to the bedroom, and found a scene that set off those domestic warning bells. Sentiment! Intimacy! Danger!

Sound asleep, a pathology textbook abandoned on her chest, Molly looked charming. She had her hair tied up in a loose knot on the top of her head, glasses he'd never seen before sliding down her nose, the old Spice Girls tank top, and the blasted cat curled up on the pillow beside her. He carefully prepared her for the night, putting away the book and marking the page, taking off her glasses, and once he was stripped down to his shorts, switched off the lamp and shooed the cat off of his pillow.

Lying in the dark, he had to admit to himself that it felt good not to be alone in his big, empty house with his thoughts tonight. It felt good to be on hand should Molly have nightmares from her day.

Lady Smallwood was right: he could be in trouble.

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

"You seem nervous," Molly said, her eyes full of warmth while she watched him toy with his napkin. She forked a fat mushroom from her plate, and bit into it, savouring the flavour against the wine she had lingering on her tongue.

"Well, I feel one's always a bit anxious sharing favourites, in case the other party scorns what one appreciates." Mycroft gestured to indicate the very fine restaurant around them.

"Oh my, you're very nervous. You only break out the _ones_ when _one_ is highly uncomfortable." She took a sip of her wine. "I feel like it can't just be about the restaurant. I'm clearly enjoying my meal," she nodded to the half-empty plate, "the experience has been lovely start to finish." She leaned back with her glass to examine him while his ears slowly turned red. "You've taken the trouble to call ahead to have them prepare a vegetarian meal for me, and a place like this doesn't need to customize their menu to please even the most regular of patrons."

"Have you come to a conclusion?" He tried not to snip as she saw through his plans.

"You have a favour to ask," she deduced. "One that is making you uncomfortable." She thought a moment. "One that has the potential to change our current arrangements? Out with it, Mycroft."

"I need you to attend a social event with me, if you're willing. It'll be horrid and the people will be tedious, but it would be improper for me to show up unaccompanied to dinner, I'd throw off the arrangements. Usually my personal assistant accompanied me to these, when necessary." He got the words out in a rush, now pink allover.

"You'd take your personal assistant as your date to these things? Wouldn't that be like taking your sister to prom?" Molly asked, smiling.

"It was convenient, and she was observant. Very useful to know who was sneaking off with who, or what was said in the ladies. One evening she managed to charm out of an MP his secret plans to cross the floor of parliament, just in the course of their waltz."

"We've never been on a proper date before," Molly finally responded, "not in public with people, we've just shared meals, like tonight."

"I'm aware," he said dryly. "And even then they're usually just pre-coital."

She gave him a wicked grin and a wink, but then her face went back to pensive.

"We would just tell people we were friends? I wouldn't have to pull a My Fair Lady and suddenly pretend to be some noble lady of yours?"

"Yes, though I'd prefer if we did keep to _friends_ and avoid terms like _with benefits_ or the cruder, _fuck buddy_." He did air quotes on the slang, making her smile again.

"Well there goes my conversation starter," she teased.

"You'll come, then? Rescue me?"

Molly took a moment, extending his agony, and ate another bite of her dinner. She wiped her face neatly with the serviette.

"It'll cost you, Mycroft," she said seriously. He mentally began calculating what she could mean. _Dress money? Some sort of honorarium? Wait, this is Molly, she isn't interested in money. Some sort of extortion, probably social, hopefully physical._

"What do I have to do?"

"These are my demands: one, if there's dancing, you must stand up with me at least twice. My honour as an Austen fan demands it."

He nodded, and waited.

"Two, you'll take me to one of our homes after for a good post-posh shagging. I'm not going to waste pretty foundation garments."

He nodded again, reaching for his wine to soothe his suddenly very dry mouth.

"And three, you attend my friend's fancy dress party with me this weekend. We wouldn't be there long, you could wear a mask so no one knew who you were. I just need to show up long enough to satisfy him that I attended, and I also dread the idea of going to this particular to do alone."

He groaned dramatically, and slumped in his chair.

"Well, I can promise that there won't be dancing at this party, so I'm afraid that's out, my dear. But item two I can promise faithfully, and item three I will agree to if you are formally and absolutely making it a condition."

"I am," she said firmly.

"Is there a theme to this fancy dress party," he asked without enthusiasm, placing his cutlery on his empty place.

"Yes, the theme is show-your-fuckwit-ex-fiance-that-you've-moved-on-somewhat," she said darkly. "Wear a black suit, I'll pick you up a Phantom of the Opera mask. You can be snooty and insulting to everyone, and it'll all be in character. What's the dress code to your party?"

"Cocktails and dinner, that sort of thing, black tie. Nothing elaborate, but full of snobs."

The staff cleared the table and brought out a fruit and cheese plate for dessert, with coffee.

"This wasn't on the menu," Molly said, already cutting into the bresse bleu and selecting a slice of pear.

"No, as it turns out most of their regular desserts include some form of artisan bacon."

Mycroft considered a personal question for a moment, deciding if it were appropriate for him to ask, and if he did if she'd want to answer, and if she did answer what he would do with the information. She looked up and caught him deducing her, and in her own perceptive way turned it around.

"Tom never hurt me or cheated or did anything like that. We had very different expectations for each other, and we didn't want the same things. He wanted the little wife, as it turns out. Someone to bring him a beer after a long day, clean the toilets, and leave work for good to raise the multiple kids. He didn't tell me that until we'd been engaged awhile, thought he could bring me round to his way of thinking."

"You would be wasted, my dear," Mycroft said affectionately, mentally scorning a man who would take such a finely skilled scientist and wish to make her his drudge.

"And I know there are people out there who love it, staying home to raise kids and all that, but I've never been interested and I thought I'd made that clear to him. I think I'd like a child, and I'd take some mat leave, but I have no intention of stepping away from my career."

"No more than I would. So why the bitterness about Tom now?"

"Oh," she scowled, "after I broke it off he put it about to all our friends that I ended it because of a crush on Sherlock. Made a better story for him."

"Fuckwit," Mycroft agreed, taking a sip of his coffee. It all tasted slightly disappointing after the fresh Ethiopian coffee that previous night now weeks ago, but he hadn't brought himself to request to go back yet.

"Any exes at this party of yours?" Molly asked, carefully breaking the bunch of grapes into two equal halves and passing him one side.

"Yes," he answered calmly, "four."

She looked up, alarmed.

"Four? Are we talking girlfriends? Sexual partners? Serious?"

"I went through a phase in my career, early in my desk days, where I noticed my colleagues were all considering having a polished wife on their arms a necessity. I ran through some likely candidates, all nice, intelligent young women from good backgrounds, but we didn't suit each other. Some married other men, some went into politics, some became CEOs of corporations too big for the government to ignore."

"Any you regret losing, in hindsight?" Molly's voice was calm, supportive.

Mycroft considered the question.

"No, not at all. It all looked good on paper, but we had nothing to talk about."

He looked at Molly. She had become so familiar, that sometimes he had to really look to see her.

"This is meant as a compliment, and I feel like we understand each other well enough that you're not likely to misconstrue it, but I receive more enjoyment from our arrangement than I have from any actual relationship."

"I should have propositioned you and made you my not-boyfriend years ago," she agreed, raising her coffee cup for a toast. "Here's to reliable, amazing, no strings attached sex."

"You know, I think for the longest time I only ever saw you in Sherlock's company. You behaved differently around him, less confident, lost for words." He raised his cup to her, accepting. "Took me awhile to realize you wouldn't be where you were if that was your normal behaviour."

She shrugged.

"He brings out the best in some, and the worst in others. But we're friends now." She chewed a bite of strawberry, careful not to let it drip. "I should ask, if we're to be out socially, are you seeing or sleeping with anyone else? I don't want to say or do something that will mess up anything for you if news could get back to another partner."

Mycroft snorted loudly, causing a few patrons around him to shoot him looks.

"I barely have time for my one not-girlfriend, as you say. No, my dear, my favours and time are exclusively yours. Fair's fair, anyone else in your life I should be concerned running into?"

"Equally very much no, I've been enjoying myself with you too much to even consider it, really."

They sat for a few minutes in companionable silence, thinking.

"Are we unintentionally in a relationship?" Molly asked, eye brows furrowed. "Did this get more serious than we intended when we weren't paying attention?"

Mycroft fingered his pocket watch, uncomfortable.

"I would argue we're still missing the rather important component of _romance_ to make it a proper relationship."

She pointed her fork at him, a piece of cheese speared on the end.

"Excellent point. We're in the clear."


	6. Chapter 6

"Five," Mycroft muttered into Molly's ear as they entered the wood panelled reception room at Sir Humphrey's luxurious townhouse. She smiled at their host as they went through introductions ("No, no, just old friends, but pleased to be here, sir."), and once they'd found a quiet corner and a drink he elaborated.

"Five exes here," he said quietly, taking a deep pull of his drink. There were cracks forming in his perfect public composure.

"Who?"

"Someone I had a liaison with in my early days, back when an affair of that sort would end your career. I haven't seen them since 1993, when we worked together on a job in Helsinki.'

Molly scanned the room and found an extremely handsome man in his early fifties glancing their way.

"Silver fox at 4 o'clock?"

"Mmhm," he agreed, finishing his drink. She handed him hers.

"Gorgeous. Think he'd be interested in a threesome," she asked after he had taken a particularly large mouthful. Gin and tonic sprayed out of Mycroft's nose, and Molly quickly turned him around to face a wild painting of a fire over an ancient city located behind them, and gestured at the artwork speaking loudly about the colours until he had himself in hand.

"I'm sorry, my dear, if I remember correctly his interests were strictly same-sex."

"The world needs more bisexuals," she sighed, "you're too rare a bird, Mycroft."

"If you're ever wondering what gin feels like in your nasal cavity," he finished by pointing to the scorching scene on the canvas. She took the alcohol-soaked handkerchief out of his hand as he debated what to do with it, not wanting it back in his pocket, and she tucked it into her handbag.

"So how would you like to play this?"

"It's been a very long time, and it's a different world now. That said, discretion as always," he said firmly, his demeanour returning to his cool, public mode. She put her hand on his elbow in a highly ladylike fashion.

"Alright, let's go introduce me to some tedious people, and I'll try to guess the ones you've rogered."

"Dear god woman, behave yourself," he whispered.

They made it through cocktails and dinner without much fuss. Mycroft enjoyed watching Molly enjoy the novelty of the evening, and he enjoyed the novelty of her unique spin on all the usual conversations. When people would ask her things like where she intended to take her holidays, she'd freely admit she intended to spend them with her cat watching Netflix. Where were her people from? Mostly Whitechapel, it was hard to tell before that, really. What sort of school did she go to? The kind that gave her a full scholarship based on her academic success.

Mycroft relaxed, watching her laugh with the CEO of an environmental development firm during dessert. The two brilliant, highly skilled women had seemed to bond over a shared love of a television show about singing teenagers.

"May I join you, Mr Holmes," said a quiet voice over his shoulder. The seat next to him was vacant, Mr Abel having broken a great deal of wind had at last disappeared into the toilets and not reemerged.

"Please," Mycroft answered, collected Mr Abel's napkin off the chair and shifting over to give him more room. Down sat his former lover. "I was surprised to see you tonight, Conor. What's brought you out of Belfast?"

"Business, I'm here as a guest of Lord Whitely. Keeping well, Mycroft?"

"Indeed, indeed. And yourself?"

"Five kids keep me busy," he smiled. He showed Mycroft a photo on his phone of his family at Christmas, his husband holding the youngest, a toddler, high up to place the star on the tree. "We married in Vancouver, ten years this October. Sean's a dentist, but the kids love him anyway. Your wife is a pathologist, I hear? That's fascinating, she must have many stories."

"Molly and I aren't married, but yes, she's quite fascinating herself. We've been friends for sometime and I'm rather fond of her." He absently poked at the pudding with a spoon. "We seem to understand each other, I've come to realize that's an extremely rare thing."

"Britain always was your first love," he stated. Conor leaned closer, and Mycroft saw Molly watching them closely from the corner of her eye. He thought he saw the tiniest wink. Conor continued, very softly. "If you've found someone willing to be second place in your heart, don't let them go."

The hostess called an adjournment from the table, and in the shuffle, Molly found Mycroft again.

"I think I've identified the other four, besides our silver fox," she whispered, casually taking his hand while they made their way through to the sitting room.

"I will neither confirm nor deny," he told her.

"For every one I guess wrong, I'll describe an undergarment I'm currently wearing."

They found a quiet corner of the room, far from the strings quartet currently the centre of attention near the fireplace. She listed off the four names, and he shook his head.

"You owe me one," he responded.

"Which person was wrong?"

"Payment first."

She smirked, and leaned closer to his ear.

"It's for the best that I only got one wrong, because this dress looks best with nothing on underneath."

He nodded at a passing gentleman, greeted him briefly. Molly leaned back in.

"So that means the only thing I can describe are my hose. You can see that they're black and shear. What you can't see is that they're topped with black lace, and they only go up to here." She took his hand and brushed it against her mid-thigh.

"You got Lady Smallwood wrong," he said coolly, trying to assert his self-control. "We've never been involved. The fourth woman was your new _Glee_ buddy, Kate."

"Interesting!" Molly responded. "Well done you, she's lovely."

"She thought I worked too much, she expected me home at 6pm every evening, and all weekend."

"Good luck with that," Molly snorted. "I certainly couldn't keep those hours. I co-authored a paper on bile coagulation last winter that kept me busy for at least twenty hours a week on top of my shifts and extra work for Sherlock and Lestrade."

Mycroft remembered Conor's family photo.

"Perhaps with our complete lack of work-life balance, we should be taking more precautions to prevent accidents," he offered seriously.

"You make room in your life for the things that count," she responded airily, "I'm sure we would make it work." She turned to read his face. "Of course, if it's important to you, we absolutely can."

He gazed down at her from his extra inches, examined her face, and ran it over in his mind. _She doesn't want that door to close._

"You're right, we would make it work. I'm not concerned."

Her simple, stylish black dress was skimming against his hand, the fabric unbelievable soft and smooth.

"What does concern me," he continued, "is how this dress will fair once we leave this party. Did we decide whether to yours or mine?"

"This is your party, your night," she said congenially, joining the polite applause as the quartet finished a particularly complicated piece. "What's your desire?"

"Fancy being taken from behind on the grand staircase in my hall the moment we arrive? Leave everything on?"

She made a noise of interest.

"That sounds like a delightful start to our night," she agreed.

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

"You've really never seen _Phantom_? Play or film?" Molly adjusted the mask over his frown.

"I'm aware of it," he said blandly, feeling ridiculous. "I've read the book."

They were outside the door of Tom's flat in full costume. He grudgingly admitted that Molly looked quite fine in her romantic white _Christine_ dress, her hair curled and pinned in a manner she assured him he'd enjoy removing later.

"Has the irony of this pair of costumes occurred to you? A couple who aren't really together, have nothing in common except passion, and they're both a bit mad?"

"It seemed appropriate," she said curtly. She took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. "Let's just make it through the next hour, then we can leave and never speak of it again."

He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze as the door opened.

"Molls, you made it!"

Tom greeted her with a one-armed hug so he didn't spill his drink, and planted a wet kiss on her cheek. He wore a green morph suit with the face left exposed, and a kilt.

"This is my friend, Mycroft. What are you supposed to be?"

The men shook hands briefly.

"Aw, Desiree backed out last minute, and I couldn't think of anything, so I went with what I had in the closet. Wait, Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes? Sherlock's brother? You're going out?"

"We're friends, Tom, no need to speculate," she said in a cautionary tone. He shrugged, and pointed them towards the drinks on the kitchen counter.

The flat was packed with people, all in their fancy dress, and Mycroft was glad for the mask that gave him the ability to be free with his facial expressions. The music was irritating and loud, the conversations he overheard shrill and irrational.

"This hardly seems like your _scene._ However did the two of you get as far as engaged?"

"He was kind, decent, attentive," she said with a shrug. "Easy to live with. Life was very pleasant with him, for a time."

A drunk man wandered up to them and threw his arms around Molly. Her eyes went wide, the flash of sudden fear too much.

"Oh my god, man, I love _Phantom_. Can you sing the song about the masquerade? It'd be so meta!"

"How about we leave it with a threat that if you touch her again, I will garrote you and leave your body in the rafters of the nearest theatre?" Mycroft stated coldly, freeing her from the stranger's wandering hands. "Scurry off, now."

The man quickly faded into the crowd.

Molly led Mycroft to the edge of the room. Neither felt like drinking with so many people pressing in around. They couldn't think with all the noise.

"Where would you go, if you could go anywhere on a day trip," Mycroft asked loudly at random, trying to make simple conversation. He expected her to hesitate while she thought, or debate between several options, but she had a prompt answer ready.

"Dover Castle," she said over the music, "I'm going in two weeks as a treat for the bank holiday. Saw a documentary on the restoration work there, looked fascinating. Want to come?"

"Barring international incident, certainly," he agreed. He checked his watch. It had only been seven minutes since their arrival and they had made an agreement to stay an hour. "Dover is less than two hours on the train. Were you planning on staying the night, or doing it all in a day?"

"Be easier to just come home, and maybe stay at mine that night. It's closer to the train station than yours."

"That sounds cosy," said a voice beside them. Tom had reappeared with a flat of cans of cider that he was offering around to his guests. "Do a lot of friendly sleepovers with Mycroft now, Moll?"

Molly was prepared to launch into a _just leave it_ style speech, but Tom continued.

"Consolation prize for the brother, eh? Gotta get your jollies off with at least one Holmes? Do you make him wear a Sherlock mask and hump hi-" there was a thwack.

Tom fell to the floor, holding his jaw, tins of cider scattering around him. Mycroft adjusted his suit jacket with a hand that was likely to be aching soon. The hit had been fast, effective, minimal drama, and if Molly had any doubts of the range of Mycroft's previous _legwork_ , it had been ample demonstration.

"That was terribly rude, Tom," Molly said acidly at the green man on the floor. "Mycroft is a dear friend, and there is no cause to be disrespectful to either of us. We're going."

They made their way to the door and out into the quiet of the dim corridor. He removed his mask and checked his watch. _In and out in less than ten minutes, small mercy_.

"I can't believe that neanderthal," she hissed. "That's so humiliating." Anger bristled off of her as she quick-stepped down the hall toward the stairs. While she walked she pulled a folded plastic bag out of a discreet pocket in her costume dress, open it up and handed it to him to hold. He deposited his mask inside. She pulled off her costume dress while they took the stairs down, a simple close-fitting modern dress underneath, and shoved the fancy gown in the bag.

They exited the building into the back alley. It was dark but for a single bulb overhead. She stopped him with a hand to his chest. Looking down at her, he saw that her expression was fierce, her eyes boring into his.

"Don't you ever, ever for a moment, think that I don't see you for exactly who you are. Don't you doubt for a moment how much I value what we have together."

Taken aback by her sober vehemence, he didn't know how to respond. He held up his hand, knuckles visibly swelling.

"Think I'd risk life and limb just to defend my own honour, my dear? I assure you, I'm far too domesticated for that sort of thing these days."

"Did you threaten to garrotte someone in there," she asked with a faint smile.

"Mostly domesticated," he corrected. "I'm not sorry to leave that ghastly collection of noise and people, but we do seem to have a great deal of time on our hands this evening now. Any preferences?" They made their way out to the street, and he called a cab.

"Bottle of wine and a good sulk," she sighed.

"Counter offer: decent take away, bottle of wine, and a quiet night at mine. I have a great deal of reading I need to catch up on for work, after the upsets of the past couple weeks. We could sit in the library in front of the fire and you could read, brood, sulk, whatever pleasure takes you, if it wouldn't be too boring."

She turned and gave him a gentle smile that made him feel strange inside.

"I can't think of anything better. Mind if we stop at mine on the way?"

They went to her flat, jettisoned the bag of costumes, and Molly quickly changed and packed up for the evening. In between staring matches with the cat, who was definitely standing on the cooker, he noticed that most of her overnight bag was already packed with extra this and that which only was used at his home.

"There's a blue ice pack in the freezer," she said, packing her tablet and charger into the bag on top of her clothes and picking up a professional looking folio and notebook. He tended his hand, and she disappeared into the bathroom to remove all the pins from her fancy hair. It came down in long loose curls, overly romantic against her comfortable jumper and jeans.

"Shall we?"

In the cab over, they debated over a place to order dinner. The pickier one (Mycroft obviously) winning. Molly made the order online on her mobile while they drove, Mycroft sat back against the car seat, looking out the window as they entered his neighbourhood.

This evening felt different, unsettling. In the past two hours they had made plans to go away together for a day, had defended the validity of their not-relationship, had a companionable evening planned with no mention of sex, and now he was wondering whether it would be practical to ask if Molly simply wanted to leave some of her things at his home. The idea of carving out any space for her felt like a violation of their spoken expectations. And yet she had given him a key to her flat with no expectation of its imminent return. He supposed that he had given her the combination to his back door her first time there, and not changed it after, but that didn't feel as real.

They arrived home, and the key became quickly relevant again.

"Is that my old keychain," Molly asked, peering into the priceless glass bowl where Mycroft was about to dump his pockets. "You've taken the key off of it," she observed.

"Yes," he tried to say casually, holding up the small ring he usually carried. As she had once said, there were very few locked doors in Britain for Mycroft, and he didn't have much need of keys. On the ring was the one for his front door, the master for all his non-swipe security lockups, and now hers. She gave him a wry look that he couldn't entirely understand, and a kiss on the cheek.

"I'm going to go put my things upstairs." She popped a couple of notes on the hall table from her purse. "My share of the food when it arrives."

"Dining room," he offered.

She shook her head, taking the stairs quickly.

"Please no, I can't sit at that table without hearing your mother say _quim_."

He wandered into the kitchen, and put the now-warm ice pack in his nearly-empty freezer. He selected a bottle of something that would go well with a dinner that was likely arriving in styrofoam, and a pair of glasses. Reading material he retrieved from his private office, someplace he was fairly certain Molly would have carefully avoided on her initial tour of the house, and he left it in a pile on a chair by the fire in the library. He was equally certain she would not be tempted to snoop. Very little of it was exciting reading. Lots of backgrounds, dossiers, non-urgent security briefings, policy drafts, international affairs, and a new autobiography in Spanish on an up-and-coming dictator he was watching closely.

She joined him with her notebook folio, tablet and charger, plugging it into a well hidden outlet added into the panelling of the room.

"All the journals I follow are pdf now," she explained. "Saves a great deal of office space."

It was near-silence for hours in the cosy little room as they concentrated on their tasks. At no point had Mycroft actually forgotten her presence, but found it was a pleasant accompaniment to the work. She didn't interrupt him when she came across something interesting, but made notes in her book. He answered a couple of calls from his office, but she waived him to stay seated, he wouldn't bother her.

He did notice Molly frowning at him once, when he needed a bathroom break and she caught him dog-earing the corner of the page of the book he was skimming.

"The whole book'll probably be in the office incinerator this time tomorrow," he confessed, dropping a kiss on her scandalized forehead before leaving.

"Defiler," she called after him.

At midnight, Molly admitted defeat.

"I think I've read this paragraph three times, and I'm not making head nor tails of it. I'm calling it for the night." She switched off her tablet, and put it and her notebook on the small antique desk. "Mind if I'm a bad guest and head to bed without you?"

"No, not at all, my dear. I'll be up in doscientas páginas. Please make yourself comfortable."

She stopped by his chair to give him a very warm kiss on the mouth.

"Let's have some fun in the morning," she said, leaving him with a playful nip under the jaw.

He sat in the heavy solitude of the room, flipping pages at his usual rapid pace, for around fifteen more minutes when there was a beep-beep-click from his back door.

"If tonight's the night you intended to strangle me in my sleep, Sherlock, you've come too early, I'm still awake," he drawled.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's note:

I don't like to do these, they break the flow for people reading the story all at once, but I felt like this one was necessary. This story was complete before I posted the first chapter, but sometime over the past week I just decided that I hated everything I had originally written after chapter six. I blame the pregnancy hormones (I'm five months along). The same thing happened while I was writing "Marriage, and Other Miscalculations" (pregnant with my first wee one). I promise this one will be completed, I'm still writing, but updates might be a bit slower than they were at first, and there may be more typos, so I apologize in advance. Thanks to the kind reviewers. I know this ship is unpopular, so I value the encouragement and feedback you've given even more. Now back to playing dolls with someone else's characters.

Thanks,

Angharabbit

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

"Good morning, sunshine," a sleepy, warm voice said in Mycroft's ear. He groaned, turning away from the sound and burrowing into his pillow. Molly wound herself around him, and stroked at the long muscles in his bare back.

"Get away, devil woman," he muttered, tasting regret in the back of his throat.

"How late was Sherlock here," she asked. He could hear her amusement.

"I'm sorry we woke you, we stayed out in the garden."

"You didn't wake me," she admitted, gently kneading his shoulders. "You smell like cigarettes and cognac. Sherlock doesn't really drink, so I'm guess the cigarettes were during, and the liquor was after he left. Bad visit?"

"The usual. He came by to follow up on something he'd been doing as a favour for me. It was clear that he's been using again. We were at each other's throat in minutes."

"Oh dear, I'm sorry to hear that. For such clever people who pretend to have no hearts, you really know straight where to go to dig into each other's."

"He sends his regards, by the way," Mycroft moaned, as Molly's fingers worked her way up his neck.

"I'm sure he said more than that on the subject," she said. "Are you planning on going to work this hung over?"

"No, will work at my club. Quiet, dark, better tea."

"Will he let you help him at all?"

"No, and when I brought it up he offered some suggestions and phrases I had to google."

"Anything he'll let me do?"

"I'm sure he knows that I'll tell you. He seems to have all sorts of assumptions about what is or is not between us. My guess is that until required, he's going to avoid Bart's."

"Do I want to know what he's assumed?" Her hands paused a moment, and then began to rub his scalp under his thin brown hair. It felt heavenly, he couldn't remember anyone doing that before.

"Oh, that you've made my grinch heart grow three sizes, that sort of thing, followed by a jibe about my weight and a recommendation to see my cardiologist before my swollen arteries are completely blocked by fat and sentiment."

Molly laid her head down his chest and listened. In his bleary state, he found the gesture unusually sweet.

"Good and strong," she patted his sternum.

"Yes, I actually saw my cardiologist just last week and she agreed," he replied, a little smug. "My heart hasn't been this healthy in years, told me to keep doing whatever I'm doing."

"Well, what you're doing is me, so I have to concur with her medical opinion." Molly gave him a soft kiss on the mouth and made a mock noise of disgust. "Eugh, smoke."

She got up and used his shower, preparing herself for the day.

"I just had a thought, while I was having a wash," she said, sitting on the end of the bed to detangle her wet hair with a wide-tooth comb.

"Hmmf?" His face was back in the pillow.

"Your people at work, they must generally know that there's something going on between us, since they've known to find you at my flat and all. Do they never wonder that I'm a security risk for you, having dated Jim Moriarty?"

"Are you a security risk," he asked lazily. "Should I be dragging you off for interrogation in the cells under my office? Could be fun."

"You have interrogation cells under your- no, never mind, I probably shouldn't know. Obviously I don't think I'm a threat to anyone, but this-" she waived between them, "whatever it is, it hasn't compromised you, has it?"

He made a noise that was somewhere between dismissive and derisive, and reached over to the nightstand for his phone.

"Let me check MI6." Accessing the database he wanted, he quickly scanned through their files on himself, and on Molly.

"Mycroft, you're looking paler than you did even before. Something troubling?"

He cleared his throat, and considered an answer that wouldn't be a lie. _I'm too hung over for this._

"It's noted that we likely have a sexual arrangement, but no question of you being a risk in any way. Your file's always made it perfectly clear that your association with Moriarty was in passing."

"That's good," she said hesitantly, suspecting he was holding more back but not wanting to pry. He put down his phone, running over and over the lines of the files in his mind while he watched her dress. There was something he always liked about the way she'd dress bottom to top, something sexy about her in her jeans and shoes, bare breasted with her hair loose about. It wasn't currently enough to distract him.

 _Surveillance teams note frequency and duration of time spent together points to an intimate, personal relationship between M. Hooper and M. Holmes. Clear indications of romantic partnership and projection that arrangement, if continued, will likely progress to cohabitation in near future. Further assessment of security implications recommended, summary of reports forwarded to R. Smallwood._

She crawled onto the bed and straddled him, bending down to give him a toe-curling kiss.

"I'm busy the next few evenings, catching up with the girls and some mates from school, but I'll text you Dover plans if I don't see you at night."

"I'll be at a conference in Luxembourg from tonight until Friday afternoon, but I'll see you Saturday morning to go to the train," he confirmed, trailing his fingers up her body to make her shiver.

"Alright, enough of that, I've got to go pack up my things and head out," she kissed him again.

His decision from the night before was on the tip of his tongue, but the words from the report floated back into the forefront of his mind, stalling him: _will likely progress to cohabitation in near future._

 _Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft Holmes._

"In the interest of efficiency, and with the assumption that you'll be back, would you care to leave a few things here? You can always retrieve them another time if you don't intend to visit again."

"That would be handy," she admitted, climbing off of him and putting on her bra and shirt. "Where would be best?"

"There are a lot of empty drawers in the bathroom, any of those work."

"This house was designed for a family of twelve, wasn't it," she laughed.

She left shortly after, and he lay in bed, groaning with embarrassment that Lady Smallwood had received reports about his personal life. She'd have to contact him if she had any concerns about his discretion, or Doctor Hooper's reliability, and it would be a horribly awkward conversation.

If any major red flags were raised, it could go to the entire committee for review. It had happened before with other members and department heads who had begun relationships with potentially unreliable individuals. _It's not a relationship_ , he reminded himself, _it's just sex._ But he couldn't see himself saying that to the committee either, and in any case, it wouldn't make a difference to them what they were doing as long as they were spending so much time in each other's company, and the access to information and potential for slip-ups that implied.

 _Could just simplify matters and end it,_ he considered once again. Sherlock had brought up that possibility the previous night, and it had sounded just as unpalatable then.

 _"_ _It would be kinder just to end it now, Mycroft,"_ he had said angrily, lighting another cigarette in the darkness of the garden. _"Molly Hooper may be satisfied with with a robot for a boyfriend now, but what she wants more than anything is someone to love her. You know that, I know that, and neither of us could ever give her that. The longer this drags out, the more attached she becomes, the harder it will be later on."_

 _"_ _You were the one trying to convince me that I was lonely, Sherlock. All your attempts at cleverness, trying to make me form attachments. I did, I made a friend out of Molly Hooper, and now you expect me to drop that because our friendship isn't taking a form you recognize? Expand your horizons, brother mine, we're not all monks living in our own personal mental monasteries."_

 _"_ _You're going to break her heart even worse than I did. She deserves someone normal."_

 _"_ _She deserves more credit than you're giving her."_

 _They were silent, both uncomfortable with the emotional turn the conversation had taken._

 _"_ _Who did you punch? Looks like a good, single hit, from what I can see of the remaining swelling pattern, but it is dark."_

 _"_ _Hardly matters," Mycroft had answered, coughing around a mouthful of smoke._

 _Sherlock raised and eyebrow, and Mycroft felt exposed. Life had been easier before Sherlock had made friends, before he had grown better at analysing facial expressions and reading emotional responses._

 _"_ _Don't fuck this up, Mycroft," Sherlock warned, fading dramatically into the night. He would be out of touch for several weeks, completing a favour Mycroft had demanded in exchange for not confining him to a rehab program, and Mycroft was already nervous about what Sherlock would get up to in the down times of his mission._

"Don't fuck this up, Mycroft," he repeated to himself, crawling out of his warm, cosy bed to throw himself into the shower and his day.

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

The conference didn't go as planned.

It was day two of the summit, and Mycroft was in a stunning hotel ballroom lined with tables draped with snowy white linen clothes. The painted ceiling was accented with gorgeous chandeliers, reflected again in the polish marble floor. In his ear was the smooth voice of the English translator, unnecessary at the moment as he was following the French speaker.

Bored, he had just doodled what he considered a rather fine duck in the margin of the official agenda for that afternoon's session when all the air was sucked out of his lungs, and he felt every inch of his body slammed backwards off his chair by a wall of forceful heat.


	8. Chapter 8

Bored, Molly was folding the pub napkin in smaller and smaller triangles. It had been wet with spillover when it had arrived, neatly tucked under her pint, but was now dry and brittle.

She had agreed to go out with her mates from uni ages ago, and never remembered until the lot of them were three sheets to the wind how little they all had in common now. Too uncomfortable to drink as much as she wanted, she listened to her old residence floormate tell a joke she suspected had an offensive punchline while she idly scanned the running captions of the news on the muted television above the bar.

 _Football, football, football, come on, beebs, show something other than sport._

There was a roar of laughter at the table, and she was jostled affectionately. _Racist_ , she confirmed, embarrassed that she knew people who would find such things funny.

An urgent caption in a flashing red bar crossed the bottom of the news program's screen, and the picture switched to scenes of a severely damaged grand building, smoke and rubble mixed with flashing emergency lights with the headline _LIVE COVERAGE: DEADLY TERROR ATTACK AT SECURITY SUMMIT._

Molly's stomach sank, sudden nausea twisting her stomach.

 _No. No._

The scrolling bar gave more information.

 _AT LEAST 29 CASUALTIES AT LUXEMBOURG HOTEL EXPLOSION. DETAILS STILL COMING IN FROM LOCAL AUTHORITIES. 17 CONFIRMED DEAD. 8 UK CASUALTIES BEING REPORTED BUT UNCONFIRMED._

In her pocket, Molly felt her mobile vibrate with a call from a blocked number. Praying it was Mycroft, she answered it while she climbed out of her seat and moved to the front of the pub to find a quieter spot.

"Doctor Hooper, a black car will be outside of the Lion & Whistle Pub for you in four minutes," an unfamiliar woman's voice informed her, then hung up.

Not knowing what to expect, Molly used the bathroom quickly, losing her beer and chips to her nerves, and retrieved her purse.

"I'm sorry, that was work," she lied, waving goodbye to her friends. They gave her a mixture of disappointed and cheery farewells, and she exited the pub into a misty rain.

The car was waiting. It was a different car and different driver than she had become used to seeing with Mycroft, and the driver had left the partition up between them. They drove off silently, out of the city, lights turning eventually into fields, and then the lights of a tiny airstrip.

Molly texted and called Mycroft, but knew that even if he were in a position to respond, it probably would not be his first priority to check in. Fear for his safety began to mix with fear of her own unknown. There had been no indication of where she was going or why.

 _They would likely have his parents identify his body, if he were dead or seriously injured_ , she told herself. _I'm not his next of kin._

She was transferred wordlessly to a small airplane, a man with an ear piece and a very grim expression escorting her up the steps. When she arrived at the top, he requested her mobile, and to her surprise he slipped it into his pocket instead of returning it, and ushered her to a seat.

 _Could I be considered a threat, like we talked about? Do they think maybe I was involved somehow?_ The thought was alarming, but unlikely.

Left with her thoughts alone, it was a few long hours later that she felt the craft descend. The reverse process occurred, she was escorted directly into another unmarked black car. Something was loaded into the trunk, and the driver ignored all of her questions.

From the deeply tinted windows, into the darkness of the night, Molly realized that what she was seeing was the ocean. They pulled up in front of a tiny cottage, isolated by trees and water. She could see thin lines of light where the black out curtains hadn't been drawn completely together on the second storey, but otherwise it looked unoccupied.

The driver opened her door, then rounded the car to lift out a pair of plain black suitcases from the boot. He carried them to the front door, and taking a plain metal key out of his pocket, he knocked in four sharp raps, and unlocked it. Standing in the front garden, Molly could smell wildflowers and salt in the wind. He waived her inside, and passed her the key.

"Lock it behind me," he said, breaking their long silence, and then he left. She dutifully turned the bolt on the back of the door, and slid home the sturdy looking chain lock. Inside the house was brightly lit, and decorated in a cheerful, rustic way that unconsciously began to work at calming her. There were foot steps upstairs, and the sound of water draining out of a bathtub.

"Hello?" She called hoarsely, hardly knowing what to think after the strangeness of her unexpected, lonely night journey.

"Molly?" The voice she was hoping to hear came from the top of the steps. Mycroft appeared at the landing, naked with a towel forgotten against his wet body. For the first time in her acquaintance with him, he looked well and truly stunned.

"How did you get here," he asked, remembering to wrap the towel around him.

"I got a call, and then a car, then a plane, then a car. I don't even know where I am. No one would tell me anything," she said, dazed. Molly stared at him.

Mycroft's skin was red and raw, abrasions, bruising, and small runs of stitches everywhere. He looked like hell, but he was whole.

"This is a safe house, the closest major city is Bordeaux," he said, carefully drawing her into a gentle embrace. "I'm to stay here with no contact with the outside world until the threat assessment has been completed. But you," he pulled back at looked at her face closely, a furrow forming on his brow. He paused. "The protocol my superiors used tonight to collect you in London and deposit you here is designed for spouses. I hope you don't mind the imposition, but you won't be able to leave or contact anyone until the security situation in Luxembourg has been resolved."

"How are you?" She closed her eyes, and thought despite his bath she could smell chemicals, smoke. "Are you okay?"

He rested his head on hers.

"I was at the edge of the blast, most of my injuries were from debris. It will take some time for my lungs to clear, I'm to go outside whenever possible to move about. Some bruising to organs, ribs, mild concussion, that sort of thing, could all have been much worse. I have medication I'm to take to ward off infection, some pain control if necessary, and they gave me something to sleep I can start taking tomorrow night. Looks like I'll have my own personal doctor on hand."

"Let's get you dressed before you get chilled through," she said, taking his hand and leading him slowly and carefully back up the stairs.

The little cottage only had one room on the second story, with a small en suite bathroom. Plain black suitcases like the ones she'd forgotten at the door were open on the bed, filled with generic looking men's clothing and personal items. She fished out a soft t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, and a long grey robe, and helped him climb in.

"Do your parents know that you're alright," she asked, checking his stitches to make sure nothing had torn or caught on the fabric.

"They're my next of kin, someone will call them. They'll get a message to Sherlock eventually."

"Can I assume that _they_ are also making arrangements for my cat, my flat and my work?"

"Undoubtably," Mycroft groaned. "I'd like to be horizontal, but I'm too hungry."

"Let me see what I can find downstairs." Molly moved the suitcases off of the bed, and handed him the remote control for the little television set on the dresser. "You settle in for a bit, I'll bring up what I can find."

The kitchen had been freshly stocked with basics, and Molly made up a tray with eggs, toast, fruit and tea for two.

"Midnight breakfast, thought it would be gentle on your stomach after today."

Mycroft was watching the news, his face a mask of grim analysis as he took in the information being broadcast about the attack.

"My mobile was ruined, new one arrives with tomorrow's packet. This is the first update I've seen in hours. I can't remember the last time I was so disconnected."

"I saw an old phone downstairs, looked a like a rotary."

"It is, and the line is tapped by my people. We can call out for emergencies. The moment you pick it up, someone is listening."

Making a mental note to avoid that, Molly brought up the suitcases from the front door, and found them stocked with a basic women's wardrobe in her size, and necessities. She changed into pyjamas, and slipped into bed with Mycroft, careful not to upset the tea.

It was strangely domestic and cosy, after the violence of the day.

"I imagine there's a lot they can't say," Molly said, nodding to the news program.

"Certainly. Most of our casualties will be people who have told their families lies about working in finance or for corporations, and this will all come as a shock. I don't remember a lot, but judging by where the paramedics found me, the explosion came from near the main entrance. I was taken out through a back emergency exit and had to pass the bodies of several of our younger agents who had been there shadowing and observing. Saw the flag on ID badges through the dust. Mahmoud with just returning with my coffee, the cup was still in his hand. I've been training him for seven years, thought he might replace me someday. Brilliant mind. Brilliant."

His tone was casual, indifferent, and Molly ate her food while she listened to him talk as long as he needed to. In fragments, sometimes disjointed, and always with the air of boredom and detachment, Mycroft explained what had happened, what he had seen, how he had felt. She reached back into her medical training for planning over the next few days and weeks to quietly assess him for signs of post-traumatic stress, help develop coping strategies, and do it in ways that wouldn't catch in his dignity or be condescending.

They both slept for a few hours around dawn, curled around each other with the lamps still lit. Mycroft woke mid-morning, though, sweating and vomiting. Embarassed, he tried not to wake Molly, but there was no way, and by the time the episode was done they were both up for the day. He washed and changed while she puttered in the little kitchen.

"Why don't you go sit in the garden, I saw some chairs out there and a table, and I'll bring something light to nibble on, and your medication."

He grumbled about, already bored, and inspected the bookcase. Selecting a volume, he let himself out the door.

As she tore part of a fresh loaf of bread into easy to manage chunks on a plate, she considered the situation they now found themselves in.

 _We're going to be living together, alone but for each other, for potentially weeks. There'll be no escape from each other, no privacy. Mycroft will run mad with boredom, and I'll - what. What am I going to do with myself here? He needs some tending, as much as he lets me, but I'll still need things to do as well._

There were a few types of cheese in the fridge, and she set out some slices with some fresh veg and fruit. She put everything together to go outside, and while the kettle boiled for the tea, went to peruse the bookshelf.

It was tightly packed with cheap paperbacks, a sampling of everything popular in different genres, classics and recent bestsellers. Choosing a small book she'd read before, she tucked it into her cardigan pocket to bring outside.

The garden path was edged with lavender and rosemary, leading to a small sitting area with a view of the sea, where Mycroft sat coughing.

"I imagine there'll be a lot of discomfort while your body sorts itself out," she said sympathetically, watching the coughs jar already sore muscles and wounds. "It will ease, though." She'd brought out an assortment of his pills, and he raised an eyebrow at the variety. "Start with these while everything is at it's worst, and you can reduce from there," she recommended calmly. He took them, eyeing her over his water glass.

"I imagine this isn't how you anticipated spending your day," he said, once he had swallowed everything. "I apologize for the secret service essentially kidnapping you for my own benefit."

"Well, it is good for me to have the occasional living patient," she said with a wry smile. "And I can't blame you for being here, it wasn't your decision either and now you're just as stuck with me."

"I'm feeling quite self-conscious about the whole thing," he admitted, taking a piece of the bread and turning it over in his fingers.

"Me too," she sighed. "It's hard to defend our lack of commitment when even the British Government thinks we're partners."

They drank their tea and watched the waves, thinking.

"I'm going to say something and you don't need to acknowledge or respond to it and we can never speak of it again," she said, not looking at him. "But when I thought there was a possibility that you were dead, my heart stopped, and I have never been so frightened as I was, fearing that you might be gone."

There was a long pause. From his peripherals, Mycroft could see Molly blushing.

"With the same introduction, allow me to say that I have never wanted to see anyone so badly as I did you last night. When you arrived unexpected through that door, you were the most glorious surprise."

"And I wasn't even naked," she countered lightly, trying to lessen the uncharacteristic romance of the moment.


	9. Chapter 9

They fell into a quiet rhythm over the next week. Packets of food, news, and necessities arrived once a day, never at the same time. Mycroft was thrilled to receive his new secure mobile, and spent a contented hour configuring it to his liking, though he was disappointed that it had not yet been linked to the phone network, internet or his email.

They worked on balancing out the rougher times, when he woke in the night choking and pushing the blankets off in a panic, or when healing took it's toll on more than his body. The cottage was on a nature reserve, deeply isolated, and when he felt well they could stroll for hours never seeing another soul. His body healed much faster than his mind. He eventually stopped hiding the old science fiction novels he was embarrassed to read in front of her. He realized she was completely unashamed of picking up the trashy romance novels in front of him. ("Of course they're crap reads, but they're fun and light and what I need right now")

They were into their third week of isolation when awoken by a particularly vivid nightmare, Mycroft initiated a return to their sexual relationship. They'd barely kissed over their time together, neither wanting to impose. Some light hand holding on walks once the sun had gone down, like if they couldn't see it happening in the dark, they didn't have to acknowledge it.

The night in question was windy, the panes rattling in the old wood-framed windows. It had blended into the sound of gurneys, in his dreams, being raised and lowered, wheels clattering over debris, dozens of them all around, and he felt himself forced down into the mattress, secured and unmoving. The paramedic caressed his arm gently, folding down the double wedding ring quilt.

"Wake up, Mycroft," she said gently, her face turning into Molly's. She had removed everything from on top of him, the cold reviving him, and given him a wide berth so as to not trap him in. Normally he'd have some water, wash his face, and maybe read for a bit until he felt like sleeping again, but tonight he reached for her. He kissed her face, her neck, long kisses on her mouth, and then down her throat to her chest, barely covered in a loose tank top.

"Is this okay," he said hoarsely.

"God, yes," she replied, "whatever you feel up to is fine. I've missed it."

He pulled her shirt up over her breasts, and rested his body on top of hers, cradled by her thighs.

Determined to regain control over his own body, the way he had not been able to master his unconscious mind, he focused everything on making her feel good with the focus and drive he had their first time together. Goal-oriented, he used every bit of his knowledge of what she liked, how she responded, to make her climax with his hands, his mouth, and finally with him deep inside her. Noises spilled out of him, incoherent and emotional, as he held her arching body and felt himself empty. He wanted to cry, even as he was elated, as a new powerlessness filled him.

Her brown eyes shone in the moonlight, she stroked his face, gently kissing him.

"It's okay," she whispered reassuringly. "However you're feeling, whatever you're thinking, it's alright, it's allowed."

"I love you."

The words tore out of him unwillingly. Mycroft felt the vulnerable new attachment, the potential for heartbreak, like a fresh wound. He had no choice but to admit this woman who had chosen his bed and his companionship had also broken through a wall he had cheerfully established long ago for his own protection. He turned his face away from her, trying to compose himself.

Molly was breathing deeply, still full of her own orgasm hormones. He could feel the rise and fall of each breath from where their bodies met.

"It frightens you that we love each other," she assessed quietly. "I'm not going to hurt you. I will never hurt you." She held him close, burying her face into his shoulder. "I'm in this for as long as you are."

Letting her words soak in, he shifted off of her, and they rolled onto their sides to look at each other. He twined her long hair through his fingers, letting the strands slide softly down onto her body.

"Where do we go from here?"

"We go on being ourselves together, day by day," she said, kissing him, "in whatever form we choose."

Once they'd cleaned up a little, they curled back up in the centre of the bed together.

"How much do you think will change?" Molly asked, rearranging where his arm lay under her neck. "Once we're back to reality. Do you think our feelings will be less intense, with our normal lives and cares?"

"I'm at a complete loss," Mycroft confessed. "I'm having trouble processing any of this. I feel like once I'm back in a comfortable routine, I'll be more myself, and have a better handle on it."

Molly pursed her lips and stared at the window a moment. The wind had died down, but she could still hear the roar of the waves on the nearby beach.

"I don't think we should stress ourselves out getting too far ahead, or making any grand plans. What if, since we don't know when we'll suddenly find ourselves back in London, we only plan our first 48 hours home. By then we'll know where we're at and can reassess."

"Prudent," Mycroft agreed, feeling a bit relieved she didn't want to discuss long term arrangements. His mind had skipped ahead to where would they live and should they be married and did they want children, and it had left an exciting but unwelcome knot in his stomach. "What if we planned to spend our first night back at your home, make sure your cat is tended and settled upon our return, and the second night at mine."

"Aw, I do miss Toby," she said with a smile, touched he'd thought of the furry monster. "And by then if we feel like having a night alone, we'll do that for night three, both homes having been exorcised of any lonely thoughts."

"I'll need medical clearance and a psychological assessment before I can return to full duties," he mused. "There's a great deal of work to be done, and I don't know how it's being handled in my absence. Those daily briefings I receive are hardly comprehensive."

"We'll both likely have a lot of late nights catching up on our reading, that will be pleasant. And we'll have to explain to our friends why we both suddenly disappeared at the same time."

"Didn't I tell you? They've been given a cover story. You received a sudden offer from MSF to go to Calais to work in the refugee camps after one of the doctors volunteering there became ill."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I'm going to feel pretty guilty about not actually doing it, considering I've spent these weeks walking on the beach, reading in the garden, and time permitting, now spending every moment in bed with you."

"My department will sponsor a doctor to go in your place," he committed, pulling her tight against him.

They did spend the majority of the next two weeks in bed, though this time getting considerably more exercise than they had when they'd first arrived. The nightmares didn't abate, but they began to discussing strategies for handling them as they took breaks to stand in the waves up to their knees with their trousers rolled to the knee, tea cup in one hand and pastry in the other.

"I think we need to acknowledge something," Molly said one day, not looking up from opening the first bottle of wine that had finally appeared in their grocery delivery. The stood in the sunny kitchen, hungry but too lazy to make dinner.

"You sound nervous," Mycroft said, reaching down the wine glasses from the top shelf she couldn't reach. He could feel a sudden spike of anxiety.

"I am a bit, yes." She filled each glass far above the proper amount one would normally pour, and immediately took a sip. "If we go on like we have, nearly forty or not, odds are we're going to get me pregnant. It was different when we were having sex once or twice a week, or even less, but at this pace…" She trailed off, taking a large drink. "I think I was due to ovulate this week, we could already be in trouble."

Mycroft took a long look at Molly. He read all the little signs about her, picked up those tiny details his brain absorbed almost unconsciously, and every part of her was lovely. The clever, scientific, dark and twisted mind, mixed with unfailing kindness, gentleness and generosity. The idea of becoming a parent had been absolutely horrifying until he met her, but somehow, the thought of a child of theirs was intriguing.

"So long as you were willing, I feel like we would make it work. You'd make a rather fine mother, I imagine, if eccentric."

She snorted.

"Me eccentric? We'd be raising the kid on repeats of _Yes, Minister_ to try to explain your work in a kid-friendly manner. No need to let on how many assassinations daddy has ordered before tea time."

"I don't think either of us would be able to do _take your kid to work day,_ " he said wryly, remembering how neatly and effortlessly she could disembowel a corpse.

"We could send it off with Uncle Sherlock and John," she offered, smiling now.

"Good lord, that would be something."'

"So am I hearing that you want to continue doing nothing to prevent this from occurring?"

"I'm finding myself warmed to the idea of procreating a small version of our strange, demented selves."

"They could be smarter than you," she warned, amused. "Wouldn't that be something, Mr Holmes. Or what would you do if their life's ambition was to be a poet, or a musician, or a greengrocer?"

"Oh, probably have them bond with my father," Mycroft mused. "They'd speak the same language. Goodness knows he and I never have. Should have heard our house before Sherlock came along. I was nearly ten when he was born, and once he got out of the boring nappy stage and started to show some spark, it was admittedly a relief to at least be on the same ladder with someone, even if we were on different rungs. Not that I'd ever tell him that, of course."

"Have you and your Dad never had anything in common," Molly asked, opening a tin of soup and pouring it into a pot.

"Just science fiction. He was concerned that I had trouble finding things that were, well, fun as a kid. When I picked up a book, I usually could anticipate the plot and ending within the first few chapters, and it all became rather boring. With the wild science fiction books he gave me, there was no rhyme or reason as to why things happened, everything was unpredictable."

"What else dd you do for fun? You're not much of a fan of traditional arts and culture, television, outdoors, other people, any of that."

"Work gives me challenges and puzzles, those I find entertaining."

The old rotary phone in the parlour rang, shaking the entire table it sat on, and making them both jump. Mycroft answered it with a simple yes. Molly watched him as he listened to the other end of the line, and she could see in his eyes that he was committing everything he heard to his brilliant memory. He hung up without saying goodbye.

"The car will be here in an hour to take us to the airport."

"You're no longer in danger?"

"Apparently the security threat was resolved, the bombers caught and interrogated. My team was not the target."

"That's something," she said quietly, stirring the soup as it began to bubble. She switched off the burner, and divided it into two coffee mugs. "We should pack."

"Not a lot of need," he shrugged, topping up their wine. "None of those clothes belonged to us in the first place. You'll just need to gather your own personal possessions that you brought with you the night you arrived. A team of cleaners will come to collect everything else, remove any trace of us from the house. We might as well enjoy our last hour here."

"Up for a romp somewhere inappropriate?" Her tone was conversational, and it took him a moment to process what she meant. "Beach, garden, here in the kitchen?"


	10. Chapter 10

Sorry about the delay, apparently toddler and pregnant wasn't enough, I got pneumonia as well. Hoping this upload isn't riddled with errors. Let me know if you find things, I'll correct it.

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

There was a very fine looking older woman waiting for them with a car at the airstrip outside of London, wrapped in an immaculate white wool coat against the misty drizzle. Molly recognized her from the party she'd been to as Lady Smallwood, whom she'd come to believe had a supervisory role over Mycroft's team.

She greeted the pair with cool handshakes as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Mr Holmes, it's good to see you so well recovered. Doctor Hooper," she acknowledged. They all entered the vehicle together, spacious enough to fit three adults comfortably in the back seat.

"I'm afraid there's going to be a great deal to do, now that you're back, Mycroft. Are you fit to return to work tomorrow morning?"

"Of course," he said with a touch of arrogance. "I assume my access to email and the networks will be restored promptly so I can begin to catch up."

"Of course," she responded. "They'll be back within the hour." She turned her soft, firm voice and sharp eyes to Molly.

"Doctor Hooper, you're scheduled to resume shifts at your place of employment tomorrow morning as well, unless you require additional time to sort out your affairs."

"No, no that's fine," Molly answered quickly, "I've already been away so long."

Mycroft and Lady Smallwood discussed non-confidential details of business, general updates, while they rode back into town, and Molly was interested in watching him in work-mode. His eyes were clear, hard, cold, all wheels in his brain turning. She imagined it would not take much for her gentle lover to be the man he had warned her he had to be. _Ice man, a dark antihero in a three-piece_ , she imagined, designing him to be her own superhero. _With a death ray umbrella, he'd like that._

Without asking, the driver took them to Mycroft's house. They stayed long enough to collect some clothes for him to wear to the office tomorrow, his back up laptop (his briefcase and main computer having been destroyed in the explosion). He stood in the front corridor while she turned off the lights and joined him.

Mycroft was standing in front of the bowl where he usually kept his pocket contents, holding a resealable plastic bag. He opened it, and the smells of smoke, dust and chemicals were released. Inside was everything that had been taken off of his person by the paramedics, left by some security staff member for him to reclaim upon his return home. His face was a mask as he lifted out the damaged remains of his wallet, his unharmed metal keys, and his pocket watch. The object he usually kept polished and in pride of place was gouged and scratched by the debris that had hit him, the glass cracked inside the lid. The timepiece was still functioning, but off, and he reset it and wound it carefully. The chain was broken in several places.

"My grandfather's," he explained, unprompted, and put it in his pocket.

"Would you like to take it somewhere to be cleaned and restored on our way into town," Molly asked, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. Facing the condition of the things he'd had on his person was a very real reminder of what he had experienced.

"No, I think I'll keep it like this for awhile," he decided slowly. "It'll remind me that I'm not quite myself yet, not quite back to normal, as much as I'd like to think so."

"Alright, Mr Holmes, I'm going to take you home. Well, my home. We'll check on that _parasitic fur-beast_ , as you called him, split a container of ice cream, and read through our work emails until our eyes bleed."

Several hours later they lay side by side in Molly's bed, staring at their phones. She had one headphone in, listening to a new album that had been released while she'd been away, and Toby was glued to their feet.

"I missed technology so much," Mycroft said for the hundredth time that evening, rubbing the cat with his bare foot and enjoying the sensation of the soft fur.

"These guys are playing next week, maybe I'll see if Meena wants to go," Molly mused, rocking her head back and forth on the pillow.

"Well, isn't this cosy," said a deep, unexpected voice from the window. Sherlock pulled himself through the frame, and landed like a cat on all fours. He straightened up, dusting off his jacket.

"Were you hoping to catch another voyeuristic peep, Sherlock, coming in through the window at night?" Mycroft said, unimpressed. "Something wrong with knocking at the door?"

"Molly's door is being watched too closely right now," he said, beginning to check the room thoroughly. "Your people never think to watch the windows this high up, common failing."

He pulled a small device from the top of a decorative mirror, and disconnected it.

"Good, now we actually have some privacy."

Molly turned to Mycroft, frowning silently and turning pink.

"I honestly didn't know it was there," he admitted quickly. "Must have been planted while we were gone."

"Good thing we were tired," she said, horror flashing in her eyes.

"Anyway," Sherlock said loudly, awkwardly, "Mycroft, we need to talk."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Do I need to get up? Is this personal or business?"

"Personal."

"Shall I duck out a minute," Molly offered. She was picking up something Mycroft seemed to be missing. Under Sherlock's polite exterior, which she guessed was for her sake, he was furious with his brother.

Sherlock glared at Mycroft a moment, and Mycroft narrowed his eyes, brain whirring almost audibly. He sat back against the bed frame with a deep, dramatic sigh.

"No, my dear, to a certain degree this involves you, and I would guess that Sherlock believes you have a right to know. So, my dim-witted sibling, finally figured it out."

"Took me long enough, Mycroft," Sherlock spat out, allowing some of his anger to vent.

"Let me guess, you helped yourself to my damaged laptop before it was incinerated?"

"Indeed."

"Care to fill me in," Molly asked with a frown, used to but nevertheless annoyed at the way the brothers communicated without needing to fill in the details for everyone else.

Sherlock gave Mycroft an expression Molly couldn't fully understand, but Mycroft did.

 _I'll give you the chance to explain in your own words for the sake of preserving your relationship, but note that you owe me one._

"Sherlock has retrieved from my old laptop a short video that I created. I had taken great pains to wipe it's existence from the hard drive in every form, but never underestimate my brother's need to violate my privacy."

"What sort of video," Molly asked nervously, a pit of nerves forming suddenly in her stomach at the awful possibilities.

Mycroft took a deep breath, and to calm himself, quickly in his mind ran through the actions he would need to take should Molly kick him out of the flat and end their relationship after his next sentence.

"The video of Moriarty that appeared on all the screens in England as Sherlock was being sent away. I made it, and broadcast it myself, right from my home office. Moriarty was never back, and no one was using his image. Well, other than me."

"You WHAT," Molly said loudly in disbelief. "You made all of us believe that he could be back. Everyone was scared. I was terrified that he'd know I'd helped Sherlock fake his death, Mycroft, he knew where I lived, where I worked, everything about me. _Terrified_."

"Why, Mycroft?" Sherlock's deep voice cut from the end of the bed. "Why did you make me think my nemesis had returned from the dead?"

"You know why, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped, turning pink. "Did you think I was going to let you go off to get yourself killed if I had any means of preventing it? Did you think I could put my little brother on a plane to certain and imminent death? I haven't spent years of my life putting you back together just to let you be broken."

"And _that_ was the only thing you could think of," Sherlock asked derisively, brushing aside his brother's uncharacteristic sentiment.

"I was on a timeline," Mycroft said tightly, "as you recall, you were only moments away from a fatal overdose when the video aired. Anticipating your behaviour, I set up the video, sent you off, activated it, acted surprised, you returned, I started the standard investigation, got you a pardon, and nothing came of it. As far as my superiors are concerned, Moriarty has slipped off into hiding, if he was back at all, and we'll wait for him to surface."

"Mycroft, if anyone finds out you won't just lose your position, you'll likely be arrested as a terrorist," Molly said softly. She reached over and took his hand. His hands felt cold, and he cupped her warm fingers against his, borrowing some of their heat.

It felt good to have his secret out, but it meant there were two people now with the ammunition to destroy him entirely.

"I'm not going to rat you out, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "But you've wasted a great deal of my mental and physical energy hunting Moriarty down a rabbit hole that was never going to end."

"I'm not going to apologize for saving your life," Mycroft retorted. He turned to Molly. "I do, however, owe you an apology for the distress it caused you. I must admit, I was thinking only of Sherlock when I aired it. It wouldn't have changed my decision, but I would have tried to find a way to make it less frightening for you."

"It was for a good cause," Molly admitted. "I'm not happy about it, but if you're right, and it did save Sherlock's life, it was worth it."

Sherlock rubbed at his face, and stared at the couple lying in the cosy little bed. He shook his head, and went back to the window.

"I'm glad you're not blown up, Mycroft. Welcome home. Call Mummy, she's been unbearable. Non-stop phone calls"

He climbed back out, and disappeared into the darkness.

An uncomfortable silence fell for the couple left behind. Mycroft straightened the items on the nightstand beside him, and smoothed out the blankets underneath him. Beside him, Molly leaned over and scooped up Toby, dragged him into her lap.

"Whatever your reaction is, I understand, and I'll comply," he said quietly.

"I'm processing, Mycroft," she said. He didn't think he heard anger in her voice anymore, but that wasn't the sort of thing he was best at. "I'm a bit slower at that sort of thing than you are, bear with me."

"You're not slow, Molly," he responded automatically. She gave a faint smile.

"I know I'm not slow. You wouldn't be able to stand being with me if I were. But I am slower at parsing through these things than you are."

They didn't speak for another few minutes, and Mycroft hoped the conclusion she came to was nothing about him leaving and never seeing her again.

"I love you," she said decisively. "One of the things I love about you is how much you secretly love your loved ones, and that are willing to go to extraordinary lengths to protect them. It's one of the things that makes you good at your work. You love Britain so much you're wiling to do likely unspeakable things to keep her safe."

He didn't respond, embarrassed. She continued, not looking at him.

"Just don't get caught, Mycroft. I'm not losing you to prison."


	11. Chapter 11

The next day, Mycroft woke to a Molly who had been mostly returned to normal. She was her usual pleasant self as she prepared for her first day back at work, and Mycroft assessed her carefully while he readied himself for a long day of psych evaluations and debriefs.

"You can stop staring at me," she said wryly over a bowl of cereal. "I'm not angry anymore. You're just going to be responsible for waking me up and calming me down if I ever get Moriarty nightmares again."

"I think I can handle that," he agreed, poking at the mysterious beige crispy things in his bowl, and deciding to have second breakfast off of the office tea trolley later. "When do you finish up today? I can meet you with the car and we can go to mine together, if you don't mind leaving straight from work."

"Eight, I think, provided there are no mass murders or terrible outbreaks or things like that," she said with a smile.

They packed up and left, stopping for a goodbye kiss at the bottom of the stairs. It seemed to hit them both at the same time that this would be their first time apart in many weeks, and Molly seemed reluctant to let go.

"I'm safe," Mycroft said reassuringly, gathering her back in for a tight hug. "I'll see you in a few hours." She nodded, and made her way out first. A cool gust of wind swept in from the door, chilling him after their warm embrace, and he reminded himself that he would be too busy to miss her for the rest of the day.

The indeed was busy, and followed the expected agenda, but neither could keep from checking the clock regularly. Promptly at eight, Mycroft was there and Molly was waiting, and they sat close as the car sped through town. It was a quiet trip, neither speaking much. Mycroft was reviewing his answers to the thousands of questions he had been put through as part of his debriefing, psych eval and reorientation. They'd probed his personal life deeply, and he'd frequently found himself surprised at his own answers.

The morgue had been slow, and Molly had spent most of the day picking up the dropped ends of some research she'd had to abandoned when she left for France. He could see in her eyes that her brain was spinning away on something. When they arrived at the house they went through what was becoming their usual paces, similar regardless of where they were actually located. The silences were long and comfortable, and communication was easily understood when necessary.

They ate a simple dinner, split a bottle of wine, and moved into the library.

Mycroft picked up a newspaper, and Molly curled up with her tablet on the opposite chair.

"Was it just me, or did today feel long," she said softly.

"I admit, I momentarily looked for you several times, forgetting you wouldn't be there," he answered.

"I got so used to being lonely, I didn't really recognize anymore that's what it was. Being with you feels like being alone. No, that doesn't sound right. I meant, being with is-"

"Being with you is as easy and comfortable as being alone," he finished. "I've always found the idea of one constant companion somewhat tedious, until I experienced it with you. I must say, I hardly expected another person's habitual presence to actually bring enjoyment and comfort to my daily life."

Molly bit her lip, watching his eyes slide back to his newspaper. There was a blush of colour high in his cheeks, and she knew he wasn't actually reading but thinking.

"What would you think if we just kept doing this, always?"

Silence fell again in the cosy little room. Molly looked at the fire in the fireplace, and considered whether she should elaborate. Mycroft stared, unseeing, at the words in front of him. He wondered if he was misunderstanding her question, and felt the vulnerability of mistaking it for more serious than she had meant it.

"Are you inquiring about whether I'm interested in making our arrangement permanent," he asked cautiously.

"Yes," she said, her heart in her eyes, "I am."

A warm flush ran through Mycroft, making his toes and fingertips tingle and his stomach give a little leap.

"I do believe I would, my dear. What did you have in mind?"

"Nothing elaborate. More an understanding than a formality. I've never been the sort to dream of the white wedding or any of that. I don't even care if we were to be married, unless it's important to you."

Mycroft mentally pictured the horror of a proper wedding and internally congratulated himself on finding a partner who was as disinterested in the pageantry. He peeked over his paper at Molly, and while her eyes were still averted, took the opportunity to give her a detailed assessment.

There was something enchanting about the solemnity and permanence of legal marriage to this strange little creature. He felt a swell of the possession that erupted after they'd had sex, of claiming her and wanting to be claimed only by her.

"How would you feel about going to the registry office? Just us and anyone you'd require to witness?"

She seemed surprised for a moment that he'd gone the marriage direction at all, but smiled. Her eyes were sparking now, fully on him.

"All I want is you, no one else."

He found himself returning her smile.

"When?" She asked simply.

"Whenever we like," he shrugged. "I don't see any benefit to stretching it out. We can work out details as needed. I'd be fine with this week, unless you'd like to go on some sort of holiday right after, then I imagine we'd both need time to arrange for work."

She shook her head quickly.

"No, not that I object to a holiday with you, I don't think we need to plan any sort of grand wedding journey. Are you free this weekend?"

"Entirely," he offered.

"Care to marry me Friday after work, then do a weekend in Dover, like we'd planned?"

"That sounds... idyllic. Rings? Should I plan for you to be wearing it in the lab, if you'd like to wear one at all? Tungsten so it won't react chemically? Bezel setting so it won't tear your gloves?"

Molly laughed, pushing up from her seat and crossing to him. Hiding his astonishment, she climbed into his lap, straddling him. The sturdy wingback chair accommodated both of them comfortably.

"You really are so thoughtful," she said lightly, plucking the newspaper from his hands. She took a moment to admire the latest shirtless photo of the Canadian prime minister on the front of the world news section, and then tossed it into to the table.

Strangely, once she was so close that he could whisper, he felt free to speak more intimately.

"So you'd be alright with my stodgy, old-fashioned acquaintances calling you Mrs Mycroft Holmes? Waking up next to a rapidly aging and spreading old bureaucrat every morning?"

"Mmhm," she agreed, teasing a spot under his ear with her lips. "I'd look after your future gout and kidney stones and everything that comes along with your posh government job. And you'd have the pleasure of occasionally meeting with my silly friends, having crap telly on now and then, sharing a closet with my cheap clothes, and living full time with Toby."

"Wretched beast," he managed to breathe out before finding her mouth.

He slid his hands up the sides of her cherry cardigan, and then down the buttons of the shirt underneath, deftly popping each one. She shrugged them off her arms and onto the floor. He was equally efficient with her bra, and sat back in the chair to admire the patterns of the firelight on her bare skin.

"My god, you're beautiful," he murmured. Her hair shimmered copper and bronze where it fell about her shoulders, her brown eyes all pupil.

"I hope you know, Dr Hooper," he said, letting his fingertips trail gently across her skin, "you are truly magnificent."

Carried away by the furious kiss that followed, he left her gasping, blindly trying to unfasten his tie pin, cufflinks, watch chain before she could even start on his clothes. She unravelled his tie, her focus in and out while he attended to her breasts. He could feel the heat of her through his trousers and hers. Overwhelmed by need, she let out a noise of frustration.

She shimmied out of her trousers and pants, and opened his zipper, easily finding and releasing his erection. Taking full advantage of him, she climbed back into his lap and he let her have her way with him. Her pace as she rode him was relentless, naked and bare but clearly the one in the dominant role. He felt the trembling that meant she was getting close, and pulled her more firmly into him. She took his hands and trapped them over his head.

"You're all mine, Mycroft Holmes," she ground out, eyes closed as she fell over that precipice, her knuckles white as she braced herself on the top of the chair with their joined fingers. Her words filled him with a rush of fire. He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the chair. Positioning her over the arm of it, he slid back into her easily from behind.

"And you're all mine, Molly Hooper," he growled. She adjusted herself into a comfortable position, and looked back over her shoulder at him.

"Then fuck me," she challenged, a wicked look in her eyes. He kept the same relentless pace she had set, while massaging her breasts and bringing her tight against him with her hips. She was soaked with her own release, and while he fucked her he watched her drag her fingers through the slickness and play. Every time he slid home he felt the brush of her hand while she circled her clitoris. Feeling his own orgasm crashing down on him, he dove inside her, listening to her cry out in pleasure while she came again.

They collapsed onto the hearth rug. Mycroft remembered that he was fully dressed, and pulled off his jacket, waistcoat and toe. He opened his shirt to cool down, then gathered Molly to him.

"How are you doing, love?" He asked, kissing her gently.

"Sorry about the creepy possession bit," she said with a light laugh.

"It seemed appropriate under the circumstances," Mycroft admitted, "and it was reassuring to know that you weren't picturing Justin Trudeau." He found the paper that had fallen to the ground and held up the page with the offending photo. "You'll have to come to Ottawa when I'm there sometime. Spouses are encouraged to join on some visits abroad."

She made a noise of interest, scraping bits of her tangled hair off of her sweat-sticky neck and face.

"Do you really think I'll get gout?" Mycroft asked, sticking his mousey nose in Molly's ear and snuffling it playfully. She giggled, coming out of her reverie.

"Oh yes," she teased. "It comes with the job, don't you know. Posh position, posh lifestyle, posh diet, too much meat and alcohol. Gout's probably written right into your retirement benefits."

"Well, I look forward to your tender and compassionate care, my dear."

"You'll have to treat me well," she cautioned him, grinning. "Regular oral."

He had a witty retort on the tip of his tongue when his phone buzzed loudly nearby. They both searched his discarded pockets, and finding it first, Molly handed him his mobile. Glancing at the screen for only a moment, she noticed that the caller's name was a series of letters and numbers.

Mycroft recognized the particular agent's code and answered immediately. He listened carefully a moment, face set and eyes focused.

"You are cleared, code Romeo-Quebec-Zulu-794. Do it," he said firmly. "Then initiate Operation Koschei." He listened another few seconds, and then hung up.

"I assume I'll see the result of that phone call on news at six tomorrow?" Molly asked softly, analyzing his cool expression. She didn't wait for an answer, for which he was grateful. "Come on, how about we go wash up and tuck in?"

She stood up, still distractingly and gloriously naked, and bundled up their discarded clothes. He noticed that she was more careful with his suit pieces than any of her own garments.

"Molly," he began seriously, "are you sure that you're going to be alright with... my work?"

"You duly warned me on our first, well I guess date, so I've had a great deal of time to get used to the idea of you finishing up a great shag with a tidy little assassination or something. You be what you need to be, Mycroft, I'm not going to love you any less for it."

He raised his eyebrows, doubting slightly.

"I'm grateful that I don't have to make the decisions that you do, and I'm grateful for my safety. I realize it's comes with a price that most of us don't want to know about. I just wish you had more than a couple of days back before something so serious came up."

She waited for him to peel his creaking body off the hearth rug, and they shambled up the stairs together.

"I'm going to marry you," she said out loud for the sake of saying it. "I'm going to marry Mycroft Holmes."

"It's funny how if someone had told us even a few months that those words would utterly thrill me, I would think they're absolutely mad."


	12. Chapter 12

"Oh go on then, just give it a try'" Molly teased, pushing the steaming plate of food across the table towards Mycroft, who wore a face like a stubborn toddler.

"Absolutely not," he clipped.

"You may like it."

"If it was meant to be appealing they would let have called it Satan."

Molly rolled her eyes.

"It's seiten, and it's just wheat gluten, it won't steal your soul."

Mycroft busied himself with his pocket watch, thumbing the damage.

"You can't be sure of that."

Molly laughed, making their fellow restaurant patrons in the quiet hole-in-the-wall bistro turn for a moment before returning to their own conversations. She covered her mouth, blushing slightly.

Leaning forward, he met her eyes with mock solemnity.

"You've already resigned me to gout, remember? I might as well enjoy it."

She gave him a wry smile and took her dinner back.

"Such a baby."

"Still want to marry me tomorrow?"

She considered.

"I suppose I already bought a dress."

The ring box shifted in Mycroft's pocket as he tucked his watch away.

"And I don't know how else you'll ever get to Dover," he added seriously.

They ate their meal, flirted, split dessert, and then debated where to sleep that night. Tired as they were after diving back into routine that week, Molly's place was closer and therefore best. Mycroft held Molly's bag while she slipped on her jacket, and they slowly walked down the few steps onto the sidewalk. There was no moon, but the city lights shone bright on the concrete.

"Should we eventually deal with the two homes situation?" Mycroft broached, twirling his umbrella contentedly.

"I'm not particularly attached to my flat, but the location is convenient."

He made a noise of agreement, thinking.

"I'm fond of my house, but considering I'll never be able to host my parents there without seeing my mother's horrified face in the dining room, I'd be willing to part with it if we found the right home."

"Let's not pretend we won't desecrate every bit of a new place," Molly said, smoothing her short green dress primly over her hips, and slipping her hands into the pockets. Mycroft let his eyes wander over her, preserving the impression of his bride to be. Sweet, open, and fiercely intelligent, he felt his luck.

"I won't miss the upkeep," he admitted. "It's always tuckpointing this, and exterminating that."

Molly gasped as a figure in black clothes and a balaclava burst silently from an alley beside them. She turned and ran for the street, and another man joined the first in pursuing her. A hand closed over Mycroft's mouth and he could see the outlines of at least six more people in the darkness of the alley before they swarmed and forced him in. He let himself go limp, absorbing all he could about the situation, and holding on carefully to his umbrella. Two men whispered in worried, hoarse Serbian that there would be trouble if Mycroft Holmes' woman was not caught and killed as well.

Once out of sight of the street, he could see the faint outline of a vehicle waiting at the other end of the alley. There was a mighty clang and gun shots rang out, felling several of the attackers. Mycroft used the confusion to free himself and slip his hidden sword out of his umbrella. It wasn't the right weapon for close quarters but it caused the men still standing to back away for a moment. One rushed him and he jabbed the blade into the man's thigh. A bullet exploded through the attacker's shoulder, followed by the thunk of more shots hitting vests. The men in black grabbed their injured companions and raced through bullets to their vehicle, tires squealing.

Sherlock leapt from the fire escape above to where Mycroft stood below, his sword raised and waiting a only few heartbeats in the darkness.

Three men re-entered the alley from the street, one carrying Molly's tiny frame wrapped tightly against the length of him, her arms pinned painfully, another with a black matte hunting knife poised near her throat. Instead of finding their companions, they found the Holmes brothers. Sherlock aimed John's service pistol low and fired it into the leg of the man holding the knife. Mycroft swung up and brought his sword down hard into the shin of Molly's captor. It cleaved the limb, and he dropped Molly hard onto the alley cobbles. The third reached for her with one hand, pulling a switchblade with the other. He managed a thin cut across her shoulder heading to her throat, but she scrabbled for the fallen hunting knife, gasping, and slashed up, tearing through his stomach like paper.

Sherlock forced the wounded survivor into an upright position against the building wall. He groaned, holding his gushing pelvis. It was clear that he was dying.

"Why did Jovan put a hit on Mycroft tonight?" Sherlock growled in Serbian, his coat pooling around him like a cape as he knelt. Mycroft jabbed him in the arm with the sword tip and the man in the balaclava gave a feeble cry.

"Tell me now," said Mycroft, his voice icy and calm. He stabbed the man again.

"Finish what was started. Finish the job," the man panted. "Mycroft Holmes dead, the woman too."

"Why?"

The man's head slumped down, and Mycroft pulled it up roughly by the hair.

"Corsica," he gurgled softly, succumbing.

Sherlock sat back on his heels, tucking his gun away, while Mycroft turned his attention to Molly. He anticipated seeing her cowering in a pool of blood, but she stood, leaning against the building opposite from where the dead man sat. Their eyes found each other in the darkness. It had been maybe three minutes since they'd walked together, less even.

Mycroft took out his phone, pressed his thumb against the pad to open it, and handed it to Sherlock.

"Hit preset four and tell them we need an emergency order."

Mycroft put his sword on the ground slowly, and Molly realized that she was still holding the knife. She dropped it onto the disemboweled man who had captured her. Her whole body hurt, she couldn't stop shaking, and a strange thrumming ran through her.

"Preset four is Bangkok Pad Thai, Mycroft." Sirens rang in the distance.

"Yes, order a pick up, urgent, dinner for six, three spring rolls, extra hot sauce."

Sherlock repeated the instructions while Mycroft reached for Molly's hand.

"Are you hurt?"

She shook her head no. The scratch on her neck barely bled.

"Were they going to kill us?"

Mycroft weighed his options.

"Yes, they were. And these particular mercenaries aren't known for quick clean kills."

"Who were they?"

"A group of Serbians Sherlock and I met awhile back."

"Why was Sherlock following us?"

"I assume he was following them."

"Mycroft, I killed someone," she said calmly, straightening her bloody clothes. It was beginning to spit.

"Yes. Yes, you did, in self defence."

"What happens now?" The approaching sirens stopped suddenly.

"The police will be told to stand down. My people will be here in a few minutes to contain the scene and take the bodies. You'll need to come with us for now until my team does a sweep of our homes. You can clean up at my office."

"Alright."

Sherlock finished on the phone and brought it back to us brother. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his coat's inner breast pocket and lit two. Molly watched the Holmes boys smoke, the flare of each drag against their bloody fine suits.

Tension shook through her. Who were these men to her, these men who could without a moment's notice fight off a gang of trained killers, torture a dying man, and then make it all disappear? She looked at Sherlock, a marble statue of Apollo, and Mycroft, all deception and misdirection in his sleepy-looking frame. They were watching her carefully, gauging her reaction.

She could feel her brain trying to make sense of the adrenaline pumping through her, looking for release.

"What do you need, Molly?" her fiancé asked cautiously.

"Fuck me."

Mycroft shot a look at Sherlock, who was dark eyed and staring over the end of his cigarette at his overwrought but glorious pathologist with a penetrative gaze. The older man somehow doubted his brother's feelings for his soon to be wife were as innocent as he would want them to be. At that moment, for that moment, Mycroft knew that she had both of the Holmes at her command.

A sleek black car with no lights slipped into the end of the alley.

"I'll take the next one," Sherlock said a low voice. Reaching out a hand, Mycroft took Molly by the hand and gently guided her to the vehicle.

"Charnel Gardens," he told the driver, the privacy partition sealing up between them. Neither made a move towards the seat belts.

"Now," she whispered, sliding out of her jacket and throwing it to the floor. The cabin of the luxury car smelled of leather, blood and sweat, a heavy rain beginning to fall onto the windows.

"You've been through something traumatic, love. Are you sure this is what you want?" he breathed, combing sticky strands of her hair away from her pink face. She took his hand and put it between her legs.

"Make me forget that I just killed someone, Mycroft," she demanded with an unsettling edge to her voice. "Fuck me so hard that when I ache tomorrow I'll think of this and not being dragged down an alley by fucking assassins."

His heart still beating hard from his unexpected exertion only moment ago, Mycroft swallowed down his usual post-legwork nausea, and focused on his partner. The privacy barrier was not quite soundproof enough, but helped the driver determine when it was safe to let her passengers know that they had arrived at their destination. When they emerged, Molly's voice was hoarse and Mycroft suspected that he may have pulled a muscle in his lower back.

Escorting her down what looked like a service entrance stairs to the back of a mall, Mycroft held Molly's hand tightly. She was still trembling, though he wasn't sure if she was aware of it.

"Strong sweet tea, and a brandy, Mr Holmes," his assistant said gently when they'd entered the office, gesturing to the tray on his desk. He raised an eyebrow. "I happened to still be working when I got the call, sir. Your brother has already arrived and been taken for a statement. We'll have everything cleaned up shortly."

Mycroft poured himself a measure of brandy and drank it down, his face steely and pale. In the harsh fluorescent lighting he could see the blood in the skin of his hands, in the cracks and folds, the cuticles, under his nails. It stank.

"You may go, thank you," he said impatiently.

She kept her eyes politely averted from Molly as she passed out of the room. Mycroft poured her a drink, but as she came into the light to receive it, he saw the state of her. She was covered in blood. He had known this with his brain, but now to see it overwhelmed him. His stomach, full from dinner such a short time ago, heaved. Mycroft made it to the bin under his desk and was sick.

It was about an hour later that both Molly and Mycroft met again after thoroughly cleaning up in the staff showers. It hadn't occurred to that there would be nothing for Molly to change into, so he was surprised to see her in his own well-cut trousers and tailored shirt. Her long coppery brown hair hung in loose, damp waves.

"I had no idea my clothes could look so enticing," he commented gently, standing to greet her from his sanitized desk.

"How's the stomach?" She wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder.

"Fine, fine. It happens. How are you feeling? We can't go home, but I could find you a safe place to sleep tonight if you want to rest."

"No, if you don't mind, I'd rather stay close to you. I imagine you'll be having a late night."

"I'm afraid so."

"Anything useful I could do while I'm here, love?" She placed a soft kiss on his jaw.

From the doorway came the sound of someone clearing their throat. It took Mycroft only a second to read in his little brother's stance and expression that a shower and a change had not washed away his hormonal and presumably fleeting lust for his soon to be sister in law. Jealousy flared, and then was stilled by a flash of icy genius.

"There may be something, my dear, but you can say no at any time."

Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Adler," Mycroft said with a dangerous smile.

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

Irene Adler, or rather, Interrogation Room #4 inmate, was permitted an hour of exercise and leisure a day in the little garden that gave Charnel Gardens its name. Fully secure, fully disguised, and fully creepy, it was a lush garden for the use of staff and well-behaved inmates. In the centre were the ruins of a seventeenth century charnel house, the occasional bone or skull still visible through the creeping soapworts. Designed to be as pleasurable at night as by day, bright and creamy pale flowers shone under the moonlight. Silvery and sculpted black leaves drew architectural shapes, and heavy perfumes drew her into relaxation. She imagined herself a tall, graceful elf as she passed soft-footed along a musical stream, twirling a jasmine flower in her fingers.

There were rarely other people there when she and her guard entered, and tonight appeared to be no different, but sometimes if she were lucky she would be able to eavesdrop on staff having secret affairs, new lovers, or private conversations that she filed away for later.

A telltale gasp of pleasure pricked her ears, and she stopped to try to place the direction. She brushed aside a curtain of moonflowers, and let her fingers trail down some white bleeding hearts. There, in the lilac bower, on a stone bench surrounded by columbine, lay the unmistakable form of Sherlock Holmes. Straddling him was a small woman Irene didn't know. Where their bodies met was obscured by Sherlock's trademark coat, but she could see from the woman position, pinning his hands over his head, that her white shirt was open to the waist. It was clear that she was teasing him, his mouth seeking kisses that were offered and then pulled back, and there was a familiarity between their bodies, but what lit a fire of jealousy in Irene was his words.

"Please," he pleaded in a whisper, arching his hips and placing an open mouth kiss on her sternum. "Please, Molly, I can't take it." His voice was thick, low, desperate. Just the way she'd heard it in a tiny safe room in Pakistan what felt like ages ago.

"No," the small woman responded breathlessly, going in for another kiss and then at the last moment pulling back. "We can't get carried away again, Mycroft said other staff use this garden."

"You're killing me, Hooper."

"You wouldn't be the first man I've killed tonight," she said, her eyes flashing.

"What would you do if I stopped pretending you had me trapped?" He asked, a dangerous tone entering his voice that gave Irene a thrill she tried to ignore. Arching again, he finally caught her mouth in a slow, melty kiss.

Molly released his hands, and sat back on his hips, making him groan. Unexpectedly, she slapped him across the face. "Behave yourself, Sherlock, or I'll tell your big brother on you."

With a grunt he flipped them both over, and pressed himself hard to her.

"What will you tell him, Miss Hooper? That you've had me nine ways from Sunday and suddenly feeling some restraint?" He pulled her knee up over his hip, and nipped at her breast through the fabric of her shirt.

"As if you know the meaning of the word," she gasped.

"I'll save you the trouble of wondering, I already know my brother lacks restraint when it comes to Dr Hooper," came an icy voice from behind Irene. She hadn't heard Mycroft's footsteps on the soft clover. The pair on the bench scrambled apart.

"Dr Hooper, his mousey pet pathologist?" Irene asked, taken aback. Molly shot her a wry smile.

"Yes yes, all a cover of course, but unfortunately he's infatuated with her. Guard," he motioned to have Miss Adler taken back to her cell. "I've never seen Sherlock like this before, he's quite undone."

"Go fuck yourself, Mycroft," Sherlock growled.

"Of course, articulate as always, brother mine,"

"Fun to watch, though," Irene added, biting back her resentment.

"But I don't believe you've given us enough information to entitle yourself to this sort of treat. We'll speak again when you're ready to talk about Tunisia."

The guard's hand closed lightly on Irene's orange-clad wrist. She was furious, her eyes boring into the passive face of The Ice Man as he watched the pair in the bower put themselves to rights, colour in their cheeks from presumably embarrassment.

"The debriefing room, Sherlock. Miss Hooper, my office. Goodbye, Miss Adler."

Irene turned back several times to look at Sherlock and Molly as she was escorted away. They watched the garden door seal behind her. Sherlock popped the collar on his coat and looked down at Molly.

"You've given me even more reason to regret my foolishness over the years, Molly Hooper."

He left, leaving Mycroft and Molly alone.

"Ass," she said flatly once he was out of ear shot. She turned to her fiancé.

"How are you feeling right now," she asked cautiously.

"It was my idea and I still want to throttle him. You?"

"All sorts of weird. What's next?"

"We wait. We wait to see if Adler snaps. We wait to see how much this screwed up Sherlock. We wait on the blood panels to make sure the people who bled all over us didn't have HIV, etc. We wait for the security teams to determine our homes are safe. We wait on news from the ops team taking out the threat."

"Palate cleanser in your office?"

"Please," he said calmly. She noticed his facade was cracking, and tension was showing through.

They walked professionally together to his office, a socially acceptable distance from his each other.

"You have been both courageous during helpful tonight, Miss Hooper."

"That must have been difficult for you as well. Seeing your partner with your brother after all the water that's gone under that bridge?"

He looked grim.

"No, you're right," she answered herself. "You'd give your life for this country, so sacrificing your dignity, sanity and potentially even your heart are within the realm of expectation."

He closed the door behind them and leaned against it with his eyes shut.

"I hated that. I would like to be made of alcohol right now, at home in our bed."

"Think it worked? She might see right through it."

"Brilliant as Irene Adler is, she's human, and blinded by her feelings for Sherlock. And your performance was convincing. I have no doubt that if my brother had sorted himself out before you and I became partners, you two would have found your way into some sort of relationship."

"But he didn't, so we didn't, and I'm grateful that you intercepted."

She sniffed the collar of her borrowed shirt.

"I feel like I need another shower."

"Not yet," Mycroft said, moving over to the decanter. "If Adler wants to talk to you, you need to smell like Sherlock and sex."

"I didn't really picture any of this happening the night before our wedding," Molly exhaled, sitting on his desk. He handed her a glass of straight gin.

"What did you imagine?"

"Certainly not making out with you brother in front of a war criminal in a spooky garden after killing an assassin."

"Did you like the garden?"

"You really like places that are guaranteed haunted, don't you?"

"I believe you mentioned a palate cleanser?"

She parted her knees and welcomed him into her embrace. He had watched her try cleverly avoid kissing Sherlock on the CCTV, but there had been a few in there and each one had stung.

A buzz came through the intercom.

"Sir, Adler is requesting to speak to Dr Hooper. She's given us a couple of verified facts to show that she's ready to deal."


	13. Chapter 13

The lighting was terrible in the grey concrete detention corridor, but Mycroft gave Molly a final look over. As per plan she was flushed, heavy lidded with thwarted desire, and an air of recent sex about her. After the announcement had come the Adler was ready to talk Mycroft had touched Molly all over, kissed her thoroughly, bit her lips to plump them, and when she had least expected it, pushed aside her shirt collar and sunk his teeth deeply into her shoulder. She cried out with surprise and he responded by fingering her a little gently through the fabric of his own trousers.

"For queen and country," he said grimly, "I'm sorry if that hurt."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek penknife. She watched as he carefully weakened the thread attaching the top button of her shirt, then poked the button through hole. The button would soon fall off with any pressure.

"This is the point of no return, Molly," he said quietly. "I can't bail you out in there, and there are no second chances. If you get her talking, keep her talking, this could be our only chance,"

"If you're willing to sacrifice your life, I'm willing to sacrifice some dignity if it will help you, love," she whispered.

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

"I'll consider telling you about Tunisia for a price, Mr Holmes. I assume you can see and hear us." Irene Adler spoke to one of the camera domes in the little interrogation room.

She sat like an empress in her orange polyester on a throne of plastic, her wrists cuffed to the table like jewelled bracelets. Her dark hair had grown in prison, and like Molly's, hung in long loose waves. Adler watched Molly enter, sizing her up with a practiced eye.

"Sorry I'm late," Molly apologized, smoothing a rumply bit of hair.

Irene laughed.

"Good God, Mycroft Holmes, you've laid out Sherlock's pet like bait for me. Poor sex-starved dominatrix, she'll fall all over herself talking for a pretty view, was that the plan?"

Molly didn't respond, but sat herself down on the other side of the metal table,

"That's cold even for you, Ice Man, offering up your own brother's toy for someone else to play with. Is that what you are, Dr Hooper, Sherlock's latest game?"

Irene turned her beautiful eyes on Molly, who was all out of fucks to give that night,

"I'm here because you asked me to be here, Miss Adler. Why did you want me?"

"How long have you and Sherlock been intimate? Who chased who? Are you a couple?"

"I can't imagine what bearing all that has on Tunisia."

"I won't say anything more unless you tell me about you and Sherlock."

"We have been, as you saw, physically involved,"

"I'm having trouble wrapping my head around it. I can't believe he would be so overcome as he was tonight."

"Try me," Molly shrugged, "I don't know what to tell you." From the corner of her eye Irene watched the top shirt button fray, the cotton around it slackening.

"I shall," Irene responded. Her voice grew low, sultry, and firm. "Take off your shirt, Dr Hooper, let's see what we're working with. Mycroft Holmes thinks he can use you to seduce me into talking, Sherlock appears to be begging for it, I want to see what's so special."

"Tell me about Tunisia," Molly repeated, leaning forward. Irene leaned forward too, their hands almost touching.

"It's a country in Africa." Irene whispered conspiratorially. She laughed again, but as close as she'd been to the other woman, she'd caught the memorable smell of a certain detective. She remembered the way he'd desperately kissed her chest - there - that spot where the button was failing, after the doctor had made him work for each kiss. A thought struck her. Sherlock's wanted Miss Hooper more than she wanted him. The thought was absurd, but rang with truth.

Molly shook back her hair, sat back in her chair, and crossed her arms under the chest. She bit her lip, sucked it in a little.

"You said you'd consider telling us about Tunisia for a price, Miss Adler. Name your price."

"I want revenge on the Holmes boys," she said. "I want them to suffer the same embarrassment I did. And then I want to be very far away from here."

"I'm sure that last part could be negotiated," Molly responded. She touched the top button of her shirt and it fell away, the smooth gap of curving skin revealing that she wore no bra underneath. "And what would it take to feel like you've had your revenge."

"Come here, my sacrificial lamb," Adler purred. She cut off sharply, and her eyes focused hard. "Pull your shirt down, there, right shoulder."

"Tell me something," Molly demanded.

"Private Ken R Eaton," Adler spat, "now do it."

Molly pulled the fabric of Mycroft's shirt down over her shoulder. A bite mark was forming, clear rings of impressions of teeth.

"Well I'll be damned," the brunette said slowly, a touch of awe in her voice. "Mycroft didn't send his brother's pet, he sent his own. You can tell which Holmes boy didn't stick with his brace."

She indulged in a little chuckle.

"You've been fucking Mycroft Holmes, and Sherlock will still pant at your heels if asked to put on a show for me. Intriguing, Dr Hooper." She sat back again and considered Molly, thinking. "So you're dear to both of them, probably a source of tension if not conflict, and here you are, mine in exchange for information. Well I'll tell you what, Molly, I'll make you a deal. Let me whisper it in your ear."

With a dry expression and a raised eyebrow, Molly stood up and well around the table. She crouched next to the prisoner. Irene could appreciate the mingled scents of Sherlock and Mycroft in Molly's hair and skin up close. She let her lips brush the shell of the younger woman's ear, felt her shiver.

"I'll give you one word for every article of clothes you remove, and a proper name in exchange for every place you touch me, and then when Mycroft and Sherlock have finally had enough of watching their lover humiliated, and there's nothing left to say, I want to be on the way to the airport with a passport, and enough cash to start a new life anywhere I want. When the plane takes off I'll give him the confirmation code he'll need."

"That will hardly be necessary," said a cold voice from the doorway. "You gave us everything we needed to know with Eaton. You can walk free tonight, we'll drop you anywhere in London you'd like. We will not, however, be providing you with a passport or funds, but you're resourceful, I'm sure you'll manage."

Irene paled, but she fixed on a perfect smile.

"Even if you found the vial, it's too well protected to just blow up, Mr Holmes. You need that code."

"Helpful, but not required, Miss Adler. Someone will be in shortly to take you back to your room and prepare you to exit."

Face steely, he put his hand on Molly's back and guided her towards the door.

"I'll give it to you for a price, Mycroft."

"Oh?" he prompted haughtily,

"I think I've cracked it," she said, suddenly smug. "It'll cost you a kiss, Mycroft."

He stumbled his next step in surprise.

"You're talking nonsense, Miss Adler."

"No, I'm quite sure. One kiss, here and now, Mycroft, and I'll give you the code in exchange for sanctuary abroad."

He looked at Molly with wide eyes, his back to the prisoner, and she could see the barest hint of confusion and fear. She gave him the tiniest nod.

Mycroft drew himself up to his full height, and stalked back into the room to where she sat. Irene raised a finger.

"Make it a good one, Mycroft, pretend you're enjoying it or it won't count, and Dr Hooper has to watch."

Taking a deep breath, he bent his head down to hers and pressed his lips to her mouth. Irene captured his, and Molly could tell even from the other side of the room it was an intimate affair, full of tongue, and leaving her feeling sick. Mycroft ended it, breaking away with a look of disgust.

"if you are quite finished, madam."

Irene listed off a stream of numbers and letters, her triumphant expression feeding Molly's anger. Molly left, leaving the two agents alone to listen to her hurried retreating footsteps.

"Why," he spat, face full of fury.

"Because you're not just fucking her, you're in love with her, and I'll treasure the moment I got to watch your heart break watching her heart break, and somewhere out there Sherlock is regretfully wanking to what could have been. Fuck you, Holmes brothers."

Mycroft left, fairly certainly she was making rude hand gestures at his back. Other agents would already be on the ground in Africa securing the potentially catastrophic hidden cargo, would be preparing Miss Adler's exile. He needed to rinse the taste of the Woman out of his mouth. He had to find Molly.

Flinging open his office door, he was surprised to find Lady Smallwood patting Molly gently on the back,

"As of this moment you are on paid leave, Mr Holmes," she said briskly.


	14. Chapter 14

The door clicked behind Lady Smallwood, leaving a heavy silence in the comfortable office.

Molly leaned against the desk, her face blank and her demeanour passive. Mycroft leaned against the door opposite her, rubbing his head with both hands, then bringing them down his face. It felt strange, like it wasn't his.

"You didn't tell me that you'd failed your psych evaluation, Mycroft," Molly said tensely, not looking at him.

He crossed his arms over his chest, a bundle of nerves.

"I just found out this afternoon, it didn't seem like night before the wedding conversation."

"Fair enough. What's next?"

"Counselling, CBT, and once I've got basic clearance back, low-stress duties for minimum three months." He touched the empty pocket where he usually kept his work phone and his ID swipes. Once he left the office it would lock behind him and he wouldn't be able to re-enter.!

"You're going to be irritatingly bored, aren't you."

"Guaranteed," he said, a touch of a smile crossing his mouth.

"I'd like to go home, shower, wrap up in a blanket like a burrito with a cup of tea, and watch stupid movies until I pass out."

"That sounds ideal." His head was filling with questions and doubts. "We need to talk about tonight, Molly, about everything that's happened and what it will mean for us."

She looked up at him, and his heart sunk. She looked so young, so broken, and he didn't know how to repair the damage just one night in his world had done.

"I'm proud of you, Mycroft," she said unexpectedly. "You really are willing to sacrifice everything to help others. We did well tonight, right? This helped people?"

"Yes, it did. Something I can only describe as evil is being destroyed probably this moment. But, God, Molly, I'm so sorry. I understand if-" he put a protective layer of professional posh into his tone and steadied his voice , "if you'd like to dissolve any formal arrangements we have."

The space between them felt immeasurable, and there was a resistance keeping him away like flipped magnets.

"Mycroft," she said softly, "I love you." She made no move toward him, her fingers clinging to the desk behind her. "I'll be there tomorrow at the registry office if you will."

The tension in his heart eased, but he stared at the carpet.

"I can find you a hotel for the night, love," he offered, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.

"Lady Smallwood has offered us a secure guesthouse in town."

"I can have some of your things sent over."

"Mycroft stop," she said, a sharpness entering her voice he'd only ever heard her use on Sherlock. He raised his head and their eyes met for the first time.

"I've known what your job is like for a long time now. I've known what you're like for a long time now. I've accepted the risks that come with it. For fuck's sake, we've only been home a week since last time our lives were turned upside down. And I've accepted that you would step over my dying body, or die yourself and leave me bereft, in a fucking heartbeat if it was for the greater good." She was furious, he realized. "And you know what? That's exactly as it should be. I didn't sign up to marry someone who would let strangers suffer to keep their own peace and security. And what would it say about me if I gave you a hard time for being who you are? We're not fucking teenagers, Mycroft, I don't expect you to change just because we love each other. And give me some fucking credit. Other than the Serbian mercenaries, I've had complete agency over my actions tonight."

"You've been glorious tonight, Molly. You fought for your life, you coped with a traumatic situation, and then you still helped prevent a global crisis. Believe me when I say I could never underestimate your-"

"You're trying to manage me, Mycroft, as if you're not in the same shape I'm in right now," she snapped. "We're in this together."

His false confidence cracked. He slid down the door to sit on the floor, head in hands. She didn't come to him right away, which didn't bother him. He was sure neither of them really felt like touching at the moment.

He heard clattering around his desk, drawers opening and closing. A few minutes later he felt a tap on his hand. Molly handed him a glass of water and two white tablets he recognized as plain paracetamol.

She sat beside him, leaving a bit of breathing room between them. She rubbed her hands on the carpet, the coarse abrasion against her oversensitive skin welcome.

"All your confidence is wrapped up in this job, and that giant brain of yours, Mycroft," she sighed. "But you're going to recover, and it will just be one more scar you've earned in service."

"I was going to keep it a surprise for after we married tomorrow, but I'm to receive the OBE and a knighthood when I'm put out to pasture," he said bleakly.

"Well damn. I'll have to buy a proper hat if I'm to be Lady Holmes."

"I thought you'd like that," he said with a trace of humour.

"If it helps, I'll be in treatment along with you," Molly said, returning to the previous subject. "Lady Smallwood wants to make sure I don't end up with PTSD myself."

They say in silence a few minutes, drinking water and thinking separately the same thoughts of what was to come over the coming days.

"You know, my dear," Mycroft started, trying for bravado and sounding awkward instead. He cleared his throat and started again. "You know that the terror attack, the mercenaries, Adler's revenge, it all would have happened whether or not you were in my life, and my career and all that I am tied into that would still be in the same state without you. The difference is that without my career, I'd have nothing. Now, I have you, and our life, and our future, who knows maybe even children, and that's more than I had ever hoped for for my life."

Molly reached over and squeezed his hand, looking deeply into his pale blue eyes, overwhelmed with love for her partner in all his frail humanity.


End file.
